


Yet in Thy Dark Streets Shineth

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: American AU, Christmas, Drama Teacher Louis, Kids but not a Kidfic, M/M, Pastor Harry, church!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 57,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: Louis’ life has become the very thing he’s always dreaded: routine. His job is steady, his bills are paid, his friends are preoccupied, his siblings are mostly old enough not to need him, and his mom keeps pestering him about attending church. Apparently, the new minister pulls rainbows and unicorns out of his robes. Advent arrives three months into Harry’s first call as associate pastor at St. Andrews. Life is… not perfect. He’s still figuring out how do his job and the holidays bring a whole bundle of extra stress. On top of which, he has no friends or family nearby with whom he can decompress. Louis Tomlinson shows up to worship in the nick of time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Deep breath- some notes on this one, guys. They are all skippable, unless you care about content warnings. 
> 
> 1) An Advent Fic: My favorite part of the holiday season as a little girl was cuddling up with my family every night in December to open another door on my Advent calendar. I hope this fic can capture that ritual and the anticipation it built, at least a little bit. As such, it's crafted so as to be best enjoyed a chapter a day. 
> 
> 2) **Content Warnings** : religious themes [3]; mentions of homophobia [4]; death (not of a major character) and grief; American AU [5], weighty consideration of ethical relations between a pastor and their congregants (or, in shop talk, 'boundary issues'); excessive job-related angst; unhealthy coping mechanisms (i.e. drinking alone and watching too much netflix); sympathetic (likable?) Zayn and side Ziam; ~~work in progress~~
> 
> 3) Religious Themes: This fic takes place in a church and Harry is a pastor. The characters talk about Jesus and God. They share positive experiences of both religious community and Divine presence. That said, Louis is not a church-person. In fact, he's agnostic, borderline atheist even, and remains so throughout the fic. 
> 
> 4) Homophobia: The church is affirming and supportive of the LGBT community. While the characters don't realize each other's sexual orientations right away, that has nothing to do with religiously motivated closeting. However, homophobia exists in the world and the characters acknowledge that not every church is like this one. 
> 
> 5) American AU: I wanted to write about my dearest, darlingest Mainline Protestant Church. In my imagination, St. Andrew's is United Church of Christ. If that means nothing to you, don't worry about it. It's not important to the story, only to my church nerd brain. 
> 
> 6) Thank yous: to everyone who's supported me through the last rough month of November and encouraged me to keep writing this fic, especially elsi-bee, my sister dedkake, and, of course, my amazing beta polka_stripes! 
> 
> 7) This fic needs a playlist? This fic needs a playlist. I'm working on it. ETA: [Here it is!](https://open.spotify.com/user/thejuliusschmidt/playlist/2Ibjf6fe196WLkW9GFiiyb) Thank you to E for your help with it! :)

_Wednesday, November 30th_

_3:02pm_

The last student trails out of the drama classroom with a wave and a giggle. Quiet fills up the space like fresh air blowing in from an open window replacing the recycled sound and chaos of the day. Louis breathes in, deep and long, and collapses into his old couch. A spring pokes at his ass through the worn, no-longer-white cushion. 

Two weeks back, The Lunch Crew (Louis’ self-designated seventh-grade fangirls who bring their brown bags and french fries into his classroom every noon) told him how ‘cool’ they thought he was for having a couch at the school. According to the most of vocal of the group, the seasoned community theater ‘professional’ Samantha, none of their other teachers wanted them to be able to relax. With a sad shake of her head, she wondered aloud (very a- _loud_ , actually), _don’t they realize that middle schoolers are being diagnosed with anxiety at the highest rates in history?!_

But Louis hadn’t been thinking about students’ mental health or about his own ‘cool’ness when he’d convinced Liam to help him drag the beast of a thing into the school two Augusts ago. He’d been thinking about the possibility of a naps between his long school days and his own community theater rehearsals in the evening. 

Technically, he doesn’t need one this afternoon. The curtain had closed on his latest show Sunday afternoon and Louis has nothing booked between now and the new year. He isn’t really looking forward to the reprieve. The down time allows him to stare straight into the center of his dull, empty life. 

He should have spent the last couple of evenings grading papers or lesson planning for the winter semester. Hell, he usually enjoys sorting through scripts and choosing shows. Instead, he’d begun watching ‘Queer as Folk’ for his fifth time through; he can almost quote all the dialogue word for word and he knows that’s pathetic. 

From this vantage point, tucked into the couch, he can just see out of the very corner of his eye the box of holiday decorations he’d inherited from the last drama teacher. He’d been planning to hang them this afternoon, but now he can’t muster the energy to lift himself up. He reasons that it’d be a good task for The Lunch Crew. Louis has other things to do right now, like pluck lint out of his belly button and wallow in a quickly-filling tide pool of self-pity. 

He digs his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. Three texts from Liam to the group chat with Louis and Zayn. He wants to go for drinks tomorrow, their Thursday usual. Louis hasn’t been able to join them while this last show’s been running. Catching up might be nice. 

However, he suspects that he’d be agreeing to be a third wheel: the last time he’d gone out with them, back at the beginning of October, Zayn and Liam had left the bar together (after nearly seven months of flirting) and it’s likely become a regular thing. Deep within Liam has always lived an eagerly doting boyfriend waiting to be set free. 

As he imagines Liam’s arm sliding over the back of the booth and around Zayn’s shoulders, a knowing look passing between the two of them, a series text pings in from Lottie,

_Oh god!_

_I’m so sorry_

_I wish I could fly out there_

_< 3 <3 <3 <3 _

_[Prayer hands emoji]_

Louis texts back, _What?_

He can think of a half dozen reasons he deserves sympathy (each of the half dozen kids that still need to memorize their pieces for the state fall forensics tournament this Saturday), but he can’t think of a reason Lottie would want to fly all way from LA to deliver that sympathy. 

Before Lottie can reply, their mom’s face pops up on Louis’ screen.

“Hello?” 

“Louis,” she says and takes a breath. “Oh, sweetheart. She’s gone.” The last word is long and heavy. He closes his eyes. His cat. _Fuck._

Frannie has been with him through so much. Middle school and high school. Then those years in the City. She’d been his best study buddy when he’d caved and come back home for college. She still lives with his mom now because Louis can’t have her in his new apartment. 

Three months apart and she’s dead. Figures. 

He thinks of Lottie’s texts and the corner of his mouth lifts as he pictures her chatting to her seat mate on the flight (probably a round-bellied business man in a slacks and white polo shirt with a fluffy, grey mustache), explaining the purpose of her trip: the burial of her brother’s childhood cat. 

“She was old,” Louis murmurs. 

“Well, I suppose. But these days seventy-three isn’t really _that_ old. And she seemed so healthy. I mean, she was supposed to go to zoo this weekend with Ruth’s grandnieces.” 

“Wait. What?” 

“She’s brought the girls to church before, but maybe not when you’ve been around. They’re all very close still, she and Ruth’s family, even since Ruth passed.” 

“Oh my god.” Louis’ eyes fly open. “I thought you were talking about Frannie.” 

“Frannie?” 

“My cat.” 

She hums. “No, dear. Frannie is still her usual fat, contrary self. Hiding from Doris, last I saw.” 

“You’re talking about Miss Tinsley. About Lucy.” He swallows. “ _Lucy’s_ passed away.” 

Louis’ eyes have filled with tears, drowning out his view of the mottled white ceiling tiles. 

“Yes.” Her voice goes soft as she explains, “The dear had a stroke in her sleep last night. They think it was probably quick and painless. But so sudden.” 

Lucy Tinsley’s name is at the top of Louis’ to-do list. He’s been promising himself he’d call her up for dinner as soon as this last show ended. In fact, he thinks one of the dozen voicemail messages sitting unopened in his inbox might be from her. 

“The funeral will be on Friday,” his mom continues. “Harry’s doing it. Pastor James is at a conference in DC, but Lucy’s brother flew into town to make arrangements and he didn’t want to delay.” 

Louis tries to pull his Friday schedule up in his mind but all he can see is Miss Tinsley’s lined face and that pinched-but-amused frown she used to wear whenever she’d watch Louis rehearse. 

“I’ll be there,” he tells her because his schedule doesn’t really matter. He’ll make it work. He has to. He needs to say goodbye. 

“Oh, good. I’ve been wanting to introduce you to Harry.” 

She has. Every Sunday dinner she can’t seem to shut up about the new associate pastor. _What a breath of fresh air. So handsome. Ridiculously charming, and I mean ridiculously. Entertaining preacher, maybe even better than Pastor James (but don’t tell him I said so.) So good with the kids. For such a young man, he’s got such an old soul._ And on and on. 

“Mom, I’m going for Lucy, not to meet the guy that you’re convinced will bring me back into the fold or whatever.” 

“Sure, of course. Doesn’t mean you can’t say hi. Kill two birds with one stone, you know.” 

The line falls silent for a moment. 

“That probably wasn’t an appropriate metaphor. Sorry, sweetheart. I know she meant a lot to you.” 

“She was the best, mom.” Louis’ voice is choked. 

His mom hums her agreement. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Thursday, December 1_

_10:14 am_

Harry bangs his head on the steering wheel of his car and whispers, “Listen. Jesus. I know you can hear me. _Fuck_ James. Fuck him to _hell._ ” 

He twists the key in the ignition and, despite the cold, the old engine sputters to life. Thank God for small miracles. He pulls his phone out of the cupholder where he’d dropped it moments before and presses ‘1’ on speed dial. 

“This is James Cordon.” As if he didn’t _fucking_ see Harry’s face flashing on his _fucking_ screen. 

“You have to come home.” 

“Well, hello to you, Harry. Having a good day?” 

“The woman was the organist here for _thirty-five_ years and the senior pastor can’t even be fucked to fly home to give her a proper funeral. Do you know how that looks?” 

“Not so bad considering said senior pastor has been asked to _preach_ at a nationally recognized _preaching_ convention. I’m billed as one of the top preachers in the country. How would it look for them if I just called it in? Very bad. I’m putting our little church on the map. Anyway, you’re perfectly capable.” 

“But I’ve never done a funeral before.” Harry knows he sounds sullen. He _feels_ sullen.

“Sure, you have. We did Marcia Peters’ just two weeks back.” 

“ _You_ did. _You_ met with the family and _you_ wrote the eulogy and _you_ went to the internment. All I did was say a prayer and pass out tissue.” He flexes his fingers trying to warm them up. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Lucy was awesome. She deserves so much better than my clumsy, first time rendition of a funeral.” 

“You have the format I usually use for the service. You’ve been with me to meet families, so you know you collect a few memories, have them fill in a scripture and a couple of songs, and ask them if they want to say a little something themselves. Easy peasy.” 

“Yeah, well. I just met with her brother and he says he doesn’t really do the whole church thing, but he knew it was important to her so, and I quote, ‘whatever you think is fine.’ James. I don’t think anything! I knew her for three months.” 

Harry pulls the car into a parking spot and switches it off. The five minute drive between the funeral home and the church wasn’t nearly long enough to heat the damn thing up. 

“I haven’t known her long either. Just a few years. But I think if you look in the top right file cabinet behind Sally’s desk, you’ll find instructions Lucy left for her service. Very organized, that woman. Wasn't even sick, but she planned ahead.” 

“ _Now_ you’re telling me this? Not _before_ I met with her brother?” 

“Her brother? What’s all this about her brother, anyway? I thought you’d be meeting with Ruth’s family.” 

“Who’s Ruth?” Harry didn’t think Lucy had any children. The first thing Sally had told Harry about the woman was that she was an ‘old maid,’ _wink wink._

_“_ Her wife, or as good as. They were together from college till Ruth died a few years back.” 

“See, this is why I should not be doing this funeral,” Harry pushes. James isn’t coming back. Harry’s given up on that, but a little show of empathy or guilt would be nice. 

“Listen to me,” James says. “You are a talented pastor, _called by God_ to do this work. You are smart, eloquent, and about fifty times more at ease with strangers than most of your colleagues. You can do this, bud. _You were made_ to do this.”

Harry takes a deep breath. With a soft voice, he shoots his last bit of ammo down the line, “Friday is supposed to be my day off. _You’re_ the one who told me to protect it at all costs.” 

James laughs. “Welcome to ministry.” 

~ 

Harry leans back in his big leather chair and tugs the arms of his sweater down over his hands, still cold from the drive. Open before him on his desk lies his leather-bound day planner. Under Friday, December 2, Harry has written, _ask girls from yoga out to drinks._ And then, darker and underlined, _**make friends**. _

Looks like he won’t even be going to his 9am yoga class after all. Another missed opportunity. 

Harry’s lived in Bradston for three months and he has yet to make _one_ friend, or at least a friend under the age of sixty who does not attend the church. His therapist suggested that his isolation had reached an unhealthy level when he confessed to spending last Saturday night making a playlist for drinking alone. 

(In his defense, the playlist was _really_ upbeat. Hype, even.) 

He’s been trying to reach out to his divinity school pal Niall, who’s only an hour and a half away at Penn State’s Wesley Foundation bringing Jesus to the drunken, snapchatting masses. But being a campus minister means Niall’s weekends are packed. 

(On top of which, Niall responded to Harry’s recent Facebook post about _the best Christmas song ever_ , with ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! A Methodist, a _youth_ pastor, and a Wham! fan- clearly, Niall’s becoming a different person than the soft-spoken, indie music loving hipster with whom Harry sipped freshly roasted Guatamalan coffee and weighed the strengths and weaknesses of various historical theologies of the cross last spring.) 

Harry uses a Sharpie to cross out the appointment, relishing the way it bleeds throughout the paper. Underneath the black slash he writes, _Lucy Tinsley’s Funeral 10:30am._

Swallowing, he leans back and eyes the ceiling. He needs to write a eulogy for tomorrow and, he glances at Sunday’s block, _fuck_. 

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

He closes his eyes and curses the organist (may she _not_ rest in peace) for dying at such an inconvenient time in the life of the church. 

He digs a church directory out of his desk drawer. Lucy’d mentioned something about a young man who might help her out this year. A Lucas, maybe? Or Lawrence? Larry? As the pages flip past, the name doesn’t jump out at him and he smacks his palm against his desk hard enough that it smarts. 

For the first time since his ordination in August, Harry considers the possibility that he may not actually be cut out for this work. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Friday, December 2_

_11:46am_

 

Louis will take it to the grave, but his mom was right: the new pastor is gorgeous. Louis has a soft spot for broad shoulders, curls, and showmanship, all of which Harry seems to possess.

In fact, Harry is so lovely that Louis spends half of the eulogy- _the eulogy for his dearly departed mentor_ \- playing ‘straight or not straight’ in his head. His mother had left that important tidbit out of all of her gossipy praise. Louis consoles himself with the fact that Lucy would have approved of Louis trying to pick up a boy at her funeral; if Heaven’s a thing (which Harry is insisting that it _is_ ), Lucy is probably looking down on him and cackling.

But Louis can’t quite believe in an afterlife, not one with pearly gates and white robes and halos. When his grandfather died last May he decided that, perhaps, the dead live on in the people they’ve changed along the way. Lucy continues to sing with the choir she’d accompanied only a few days before. Lucy dances with her little grandnieces carried away by the happy music interwoven with the solemn words of the funeral. Lucy sits quietly with Louis and takes it all in, encouraging him to take deep breaths and straighten his shoulders.

But that kind of eternal life won’t do Louis much good when he’s looking for advice or encouragement. It won’t wink at him from the audience or take him out for brunch.

The sanctuary blurs, and Harry’s words and the music with it, as memories of Lucy roll through Louis’ mind, one after another. He hasn’t seen Lucy in months- why had he put off calling her?!- and he’s really going to miss her.

A tear trickles down his cheek and then another. He doesn’t wipe at them. After all, it was Lucy who taught him to cry on cue.

Louis stays in the pew waiting for his eyes to dry long after the service has ended. He listens to one of Lucy’s other proteges hammer away on the organ and remembers Lucy muttering bitterly about how her own talents would have been better used on the grand piano. She wasn’t _truly_ an organist. Lucy Tinsley was a pianist.

Eventually, the organist finishes and suddenly the sanctuary is quiet and empty. Louis should return to the school. He’d told the substitute he hoped to be back for his sixth and seventh hour classes.

The door in the back of the sanctuary creaks open and Louis looks over his shoulder to see a man- the pastor, _Harry_ \- walking down the aisle. His robes are gone and Louis can see the slim outline of his figure in (tight) black dress pants and a billowy, black silk dress shirt. _Not straight_ , Louis thinks before he can stop himself.

Probably a sin to sexualize a pastor. Not that Louis believes in sins.

Harry plucks a notepad from inside the pulpit and turns around, eyes catching on Louis. He walks over to the pew where Louis is sitting, gestures to the spot beside Louis, and asks, voice low and soft, “May I?”

Louis nods and watches from the corner of his eye as Harry sits and folds his hands in his lap, covering the notepad from Louis’ view. Louis is surprised that Harry hasn’t greeted him formally, but he doesn’t break the silence either.

Eventually, Harry says, “Did you know her well, then?”

Harry’s eyes are trained on the yellow bouquet in the middle of the communion table. Though bright, it’s a good choice. Yellow was her favorite color.

“Yeah,” Louis says. He looks at Harry’s face for a long moment. Harry keeps his own gaze forward, allowing Louis to study him. Louis decides that whether or not he’s right about Harry being _not straight_ , he’s probably safe to speak openly. He might as well find out. No use prolonging the pining if Harry’s a homophobe. “Miss Tinsley was the first not-straight person I knew that I knew and the first person I came out to myself.”

Harry smiles, a slow-growing smile that finishes bright. Finally, he looks directly at Louis. “That’s incredible. Thank you for sharing that with me.” After another long moment, he adds, “I wish I’d known her better. Sounds like she was quite a character.”

Louis smiles now, too. “She could be kind of mean, in a quiet way. Not all the kids liked her. But she really made me feel like I could be someone, you know? She encouraged me to go try my luck in the city and she encouraged me to come home and become a teacher when it didn’t work out.”

Beside him, Harry freezes. “You’re a teacher?”

Louis nods. “A drama teacher. Because of her mentorship. I didn’t have many other teachers I admired.”

“Lucy told me about you.” Harry’s grinning now, a crazed, hopeful look in his eye. “Oh, thank God. Oh, _thank God_.”

“She did?” Louis shouldn’t be surprised. He and Lucy were close and she’d worked with Harry. He and Harry are about the same age, both probably not straight, both decent looking.

Louis smirks and thinks to himself, _you old interfering witch._

Harry nods and claps Louis on the shoulder. “Yes, she did.” He laughs. “Yes, _I think_ she did. What’s your name? Lucas? Larry?”

“Louis,” Louis says.

“That’s it. Of course. Awesome. Yes. Louis.” He gazes directly into Louis’ eyes. His fingers flex in the meat of Louis’ shoulder and Louis wishes, fleetingly, that he worked out a little more often.

“Louis,” Harry tries again. “Let’s get coffee. I mean, would you like to grab coffee with me sometime? Preferably right now.”

Louis raises a brow. He thinks it’s a bit forward of the pastor to be asking a parishioner out on a date _at a funeral._ But Harry’s new at this and Louis is definitely interested, so he’s not going to question it.

“I can’t _right now_ ,” Louis begins. He really should be getting back to the school

“What about later tonight? Or tomorrow?”

“Big forensics tournament on Saturday morning.”

“What about after the tournament? We could get an afternoon snack? Or an early dinner? You could go home for a nap and then we could go out for drinks? Whatever’s best for you.”

This weekend is really _not_ best for him. It’s the first Saturday night he’ll have to himself in months. Still, Louis looks at the dimples flickering in Harry’s cheeks as his smile wavers and replies, “An early dinner would be good.”

Harry lets out a breath. “Oh, thank God.” Then, he adds, “Great. What do you like? I like pizza. And Mexican.”

“El Rancho?” Louis asks and then regrets it. Probably not where Harry wants to go on a first date, simply because it’s right here in town. People will talk.

But Harry says, “Perfect. Love that place. The salsa’s so good I could drink it.”

Louis laughs at the image of Harry tipping back his head and pouring the little black bowl of salsa down his throat. “If you say so.”

Harry nods enthusiastically. “Great. Okay. Should we, like, exchange numbers? Or-“ he scoots his butt up a bit so that he can get at something in his back pocket.

Louis takes the card he proffers. It’s still warm from being pressed up so close to his body.

“My number’s on that. Give me a call if you have to cancel or if you’re running late or something.”

Louis nods.

“But please don’t cancel,” Harry tells him. “I’m begging you not to cancel.”

Harry’s definitely strange. Louis’ never been begged for a date before. He thinks he likes it. “I might still,” he says, playfully. “Those middle schoolers wear me out sometimes.”

“We don’t have to stay out long,” Harry says. “If you’re tired, I promise we can make it quick.”

Louis shakes his head. “Chill out. I’m not going to bail on you.”

Harry nods, curtly, smile falling. “Shit. I gotta go.”

He stands, explaining, “They’re probably looking for me downstairs to bless the food for lunch. Sorry.”

Louis rises, as well. “It’s fine. I’ve got to head out too. Get back to work.”

Harry reaches out and pumps Louis’ hand firmly. “Wonderful to meet you, Louis. I’m really sorry for your loss, but I’m looking forward to dinner tomorrow.”

Louis finds himself smiling again, “Me, too.”

And, as he watches Harry run-walk out of the sanctuary, he thinks he really is. It’s been _ages_ since he’s gone on a real date. This might be just the thing to bring him out of his slump.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: suicide mention tw
> 
> Can't get to replying to all the comments from yesterday till this afternoon, but know that I will and I really, really appreciate them. <3 <3

_Saturday, December 3_

_5:30pm_

This is a mistake. A big one. Harry should turn around and walk straight back to his car. There are plenty of people in this town who could help him put on a Christmas pageant. There must be. People who aren’t handsome, gay school teachers. 

Maybe Louis Tomlinson isn’t single, Harry thinks hopefully, eyes flicking down to Louis’ ring-less left hand. 

Well, he’s probably not married. 

(Unhelpfully, he remembers Niall saying, _they’re not taken until their **taken**.) _

Harry can’t turn around now, though, because Louis has spotted him and is beckoning him over to the bar. Fringe falls across his forehead, soft-looking, though not nearly as soft-looking as the grey sweater that’s hugging his body, tight and warm. Harry wants to touch it. 

Nope. He blinks to clear his mind. Eyes on the prize: build the relationship, make the ask. Harry _needs_ Louis’ help. 

“Would you like a drink?” In front of Louis sits a margarita, lime green and iced, salt rimming the glass. 

Harry opens his mouth. He doesn’t usually (ever) drink on the job, but he loves margaritas and he doesn’t think it’s polite to force his companion to drink alone. “Yeah, I’ll have the same as you. Margarita, but on the rocks. With salt.” 

Louis beams and orders Harry’s drink. 

When his attention returns, Harry says, “I’ve got the bill by the way.” 

Louis tilts his head. His smile seems flirtatious and Harry’s stomach flutters. The whole thing feels a little too date-like, so he adds, “I mean the church does. They take good care of me.” 

“I bet they do.” Louis laughs. “So, tell me about yourself. I’m sure all the boys ask you this, but, like, how did you decide to become a pastor?” 

Harry reaches around to scratch at the back of his neck. He can’t get used to having short hair, but he figures he should keep it a conservative length for at least a few more months, secure his job and all that. “It’s a long story. You definitely don’t want to hear it. What about you? Did you always want to teach?” 

“I _do_ want to hear it or I wouldn’t have asked. Harry, trust me when I say this. I know better than to ask questions I don’t want the answers to; I work with middle schoolers.” He takes a sip of his drink and waits. 

Harry mimics the motion, stalling. Finally, he says, “Really, we don’t have time for the whole thing. Basically, I got a call from God right around my senior year in college and you can’t really ignore calls from God. I mean, look at what happened to Jonah.” 

Louis blinks at him and does not laugh. 

Maybe Louis missed that day in Sunday school because Harry hasjust told a very funny joke. Mrs. Gilcress laughed so hard she spit her dentures into her tea when he’d told it to her. 

Seriously, though, _everyone_ knows about Jonah. Harry tries to jog Louis’ memory, pushing the joke a little further. “Did _not_ want to end up covered in half digested fish and stomach acid.” 

Louis’ face sours. “Was that really your other alternative?”

“No, it’s just, like, a Bible story… Jonah and the whale?” 

Louis shakes his head and shrugs as he takes another drink. 

“Never mind.” Harry flushes at the missfire and looks away. Bringing Louis on board with the pageant might be more difficult than he anticipated. He tries to wait out the awkwardness of the moment by sipping his margarita and enjoying the burn of it sliding his throat.

“Not never mind. First, tell me what you mean by ‘a call from God.’ And then you’d better tell me this Bible story cause it sounds like a good one.” Louis’ smile is soft and his expression is one of genuine curiosity. 

Harry’s comfortable with the story of his call to ministry, or as comfortable as he’ll ever be, probably. He’s told it hundreds of times in dozens of different settings, but for some reason, with Louis’ blue eyes trained on his face, he finds himself at a total loss for words. 

“I didn’t really grow up going to church,” Harry says, which, okay, so he’s starting from the _very_ beginning. “Actually, my mom is really confused that I’m a pastor and I think my sister is still waiting for me to come to my senses or maybe call her up and let her in on the hoax.” 

Louis laughs. “My mom would’ve flown to the moon and back if I’d ended up a pastor. Or really I think all it’d take was me showing up to church on occasion.” 

Harry sees it: an opportunity to turn the conversation back in the right direction. “Why don’t you come to church? Too busy?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, looking down into his lap. Then, he shakes his head and looks back up at Harry, “Shit, I can’t lie to a pastor. I’m honestly never doing anything but sleeping on Sunday mornings. I guess I just don’t see why _to_ go. I mean, I don’t believe in God, no offense. And it’s not like I have any real friends at the church, well, especially not now that Lucy’s… Ummm. Yeah. So. It’s just not my thing.” 

“What _is_ your thing?” Harry asks, realizing as soon as the words are out of his mouth how dirty they might sound to an onlooker. And the restaurant is filled with onlookers. He had not thought this through. 

Louis shakes his head and wags a finger at Harry. “No, no, no. I know diversion tactics, Pastor Harry. You still haven’t told me _why_ you’re a pastor. Or who this Jonah character is.” 

Harry licks his lips, takes a deep breath and begins to talk. He finds himself recounting his entire life story to Louis, who nods along, speckling Harry’s monologue with interested questions. They’re interrupted once and asked for their orders, but otherwise, the whole world narrows to Louis’ sparkling gaze and encouraging smile, the din of the bar a cozy cocoon. 

Harry talks about his grandma taking him to Catholic mass on rare occasions as a child and about his first reluctant retreat with the Catholic student group in college, though he manages to leave out the embarrassing truth that he’d only gone because his crush and soon-to-be boyfriend was a student leader. They’d driven out to those cabins in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas at a fortuitous moment in his life, months after the death of his faithful grandma and days before the death of one of his closest childhood friends. 

He doesn’t usually tell people, especially not parishioners he’s only _just_ met, about Timmy’s suicide, but he’s finds that he’s not embarrassed by his wet eyes and choked tone. The kids he’d bonded with on that retreat had been his rock, his _family,_ at the most difficult moment of his life. He was certain down to the very marrow in the center of his bones that a higher power had everything to do with their presence and care. 

Their tacos arrives as he’s telling Louis a few stories about his time in South Africa, about the priest who’d taken him on what was most certainly _not_ a government sanctioned Safari and about the little school he’d broken his pinky helping to construct. He talks about heading to divinity school, but not because he wanted to be a pastor, not yet, again leaving out the part where the decision to move across the country had been tied up in the bitter end of a bad relationship. 

When Harry answers Louis’ questions about preaching, sharing the way his whole body comes alive in the pulpit, Louis lights up. He knows that feeling, too, it seems. Harry feels himself begin to glow, basking in the intensity of Louis’ smile and the persistence of his interest. 

The whole evening, Harry realizes, has swung dangerously off track. Harry feels like he’s on a date. And a good one. 

He needs to turn the conversation back to Louis and then to church-y things. 

“So you teach drama?” 

Louis nods, several pieces of chicken falling from the back of his taco. “Love it, too. Obviously, you know how great it is to work with kids.” 

Harry does, however, “I’ve never really done drama with them, though. That seems like it would be fun.” 

“Oh, yeah. So rewarding. Like, you know the feeling of finishing a great performance or, in your case, preaching a great sermon? That buzz you get from everyone shaking your hand and telling you what a wonderful job you’ve done? It’s like that, but multiplied by every single kid involved with the show. Watching the kids learn their lines and blocking and then _blossom_. There’s nothing else like it.” 

Honestly, Harry can’t think of anything more stressful, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, wow. Sounds really great.” 

Louis laughs. “You think it sounds like shit.” 

Harry drops his taco and its contents spill out onto his plate. He wipes his fingers on his napkin carefully and dares a glance at Louis, who’s still laughing, but more softly now. 

“Yeah, not really my thing. I’d be so nervous for them. And you can’t really _make_ them memorize their lines or anything. And what if they mess-up? You just have to stand there and _watch_. No, thank you.” 

Louis shrugs. “I guess it’s not for everyone, but I _do_ love it.” 

It’s the perfect opening and Harry’d be a fool not to take it. “The Christmas pageant is coming up, actually.” 

“Oh, yeah. Doris and Ernie, my littlest siblings- you’ve probably seen them running around, were in it for the first time last year. Actually, that was _my_ first show as a kid. I was in it six, maybe seven, years in a row.” He pauses and licks his lips, eyes clouding over. “Lucy usually directed it.” 

Harry nods. “Yeah, I know. Which, actually. I was hoping.” Fuck. Harry hates this. _Why_ did James stick _him_ with oversight of the goddamn pageant? Why, God, why? “Maybe you’d be interested in helping. This year. Like. Since you’re a drama teacher. And, you know, a friend of Lucy’s. And all.” 

Louis stares at him. 

“What do you think? I know this is late notice- we start real rehearsals tomorrow after church- and the holidays are a busy time for you, probably. Is it the end of the card marking? I feel like our card markings used to always end at this time of year. So yeah. You’re probably up to your eyeballs in grading. But this could be fun, you know? That feeling you were talking about?” 

“Oh my god.” Louis gulps his drink and Harry’s stomach sinks. 

Harry’d been right at the start of the night. This is a _huge_ mistake. Still, like the idiot he is, he barrels on, “Lucy mentioned she might be asking you to help, anyway. At least, I think it was you she was talking about. What do you say? Will you at least think about it? Honestly, if you say ‘no,’ I’m not sure what I’ll do.” 

“That’s what this dinner is about.” Louis nods, looking past Harry. “Oh. Wow. Okay, I see.” 

“I mean, that’s not all,” Harry fumbles, even though it _absolutely_ is all. 

(Harry refuses to acknowledge that Louis’ big blue eyes had even one thing to do with this. He would have invited Louis to dinner no matter what, even if he’d smelled like old cheese or looked like the slimy, congealed goo at the bottom of a trash can.) 

“It’s not?” Louis meets Harry’s gaze now, his eyebrows reaching an astonishing height. 

“I mean, seeing as you’re a member of the church, I also wanted to get to know you better,” Harry adds lamely. “I’m trying to go out for coffee with everyone. To learn more about the community. And stuff.” 

Louis hums and nods. He’s smiling, but it’s not a happy smile. 

Harry has the feeling he’s blown it, but he doesn’t quite know what ‘it’ is. The pageant but also something else. Something much bigger. 

He’s probably ruined Louis’ nonexistent relationship with God forever. 

“Listen, Harry.” Louis is digging in his pocket. Why’s he digging in his pocket? Harry hopes, fleetingly, that he might want to exchange numbers. “I appreciate the effort. I had a really nice dinner. But you’re right. It’s a really busy time of year. And I’m not really up for organizing and directing a show.” 

Louis throws his wallet onto the bar and flips it open. It’s a nice wallet, brown leather and soft-looking, just like everything else about Louis. He pulls out a twenty. “For my food and drinks.” 

“I meant it when I said it’s on me. I have a professional account,” Harry insists. 

“Well, this didn’t really turn out in your professional interest, did it?” Louis is standing now and Harry feels a wild desperation clawing at him. He doesn’t want Louis to leave, not yet. “Consider that a donation.” 

“At least finish your margarita. Shouldn’t waste a good drink.” Louis’ second margarita _is_ mostly finished, but Harry can’t think of anything else to say. He’s can’t very well offer another round, not with Louis already putting on his jacket. 

“I’m really tired. The whole day just hit me all at once.” Hard to ague with that; Louis looks tired. Harry suddenly sees the dark circles beneath his eyes and the slump in his stance. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Pastor Harry. Good luck, though.” 


	5. Chapter 5

_December 3,_

_7:25pm_

Louis rubs his hands together and then taps his fingertips to the steering wheel, testing. Definitely a frostbite hazard. He pulls the sleeves of his denim jacket down into makeshift mittens. 

Yeah, the car is fucking freezing, but his insides are a molten pit of shame. 

One moment, Louis’d been on a wonderful date with a handsome and interesting guy who was genuinely curious about Louis’ life and career and the next moment he’d hadn’t. 

Fuck. 

_Of course_ , Harry invited Louis out because he needed help with the Christmas pageant and not because he thought they might hit it off romantically. Of fucking course.

Louis feels like the world’s biggest fuck-up. 

Really, though, what had he been thinking? They’d go out for dinner and drinks and then what? As far as Louis knows pastors can’t have sex before marriage. He’s pretty sure that’s in the Bible multiple times; it might even be one of the ten commandments. Louis has the opposite rule: no marriage before sex. 

Seriously. How can you agree to have sex with only one person for the rest of your life before you even know if you _like_ to have sex with them? 

Not that anyone’s talking about marriage just yet. Louis certainly isn’t. His friends in the city always talked about marriage like it was a straightjacket- all kinds of heteronormative rules and expectations. Maybe he doesn’t even want to get married.

Well, he probably does. Someday. 

But not to a _pastor_. Louis doesn’t even believe in a so called ‘higher power,’ let alone that a virgin had given birth to a baby version of God with magical powers who dug his way out of the grave like a happy zombie with a golden halo. 

There’s no way things could have worked out for he and Harry, not in the long term. 

Louis pulls into his driveway, ice crunching beneath his tires, and turns off his car. The weight of the week settles onto him. The low he always feels coming down from a successful show. The darkening winter days. The forensics team’s third place finish, better than last year, but not as good as years past with Louis’ predecessor. The good, then really bad not-actually-a-date-after-all. And, finally, Miss Tinsley- _Lucy’s_ \- death. 

He remembers suddenly that he has an unopened voicemail from her. He digs his phone out of his back pocket, already berating himself to be careful _not_ to delete it. It takes him a few minutes (five or six passes of a chipper voice saying, “Hello, sweetheart, it’s your mom-“) before he finds what he’s looking for. 

Cold has retaken the inside of his car and he pulls his unzipped coat more tightly around himself as he listens. “Hi Louis, this is Lucy, Miss Tinsley. You remember me? Probably not. I haven’t heard from you since coming to that show of yours in August- well done, by the way, as always. Your timing with that teddy bear- perfect. You could have shown a little more remorse at the end. I saw a smirk twitching at the corners of your mouth and that definitely wasn’t in character. But overall, very good. I’m calling for two reasons. The first, we should have dinner some time soon. I really would love to hear how your first year of teaching went and how you’re starting off your second. I suspect that one of the reasons I _haven’t_ heard from you is that you’ve found your calling and are too busy forming the minds of tomorrow to make time for a mind formed many yesterdays ago. The second is that I’m not getting around like I used to- the arthritis, you know- and Pastor James is forcing me to admit that, well, I need help. Chasing around youngsters wears me out these days. You could be of assistance to me in that regard as we prepare for the upcoming Christmas pageant. I know you’re not one for church, but it would be a relief for me to have you there. That show means so much to the kids who are in it, as you well know, and they deserve good direction, better than I can give by myself anymore. Call me back, Louis, when you can.” 

Well, fuck, he thinks, wiping at his eyes. 

~

_December 4,_

_11:57am_

Louis hears the shouting from the top step, so he knows before he reaches the basement that at least some of the chaos is Doris’ doing. She (and three small friends) are running back and forth across the room baying like sheep. In another corner of the room ten or so middle school kids lounge on couches. A couple of them are pouring over a sheaf of papers that might be a script; Louis _hopes_ it’s a script. At least two others appear to be sleeping. 

Every few seconds one of the ‘sleeping’ kids lets out a loud grunting snore. A little over the top, but he clearly has acting potential. 

Harry’s on the stage, or what functions as the stage. The platform is only ten feet long and ten feet wide, raised exactly eighteen inches off the ground. Louis knows its dimensions because he helped to build it one of the years he functioned as Lucy’s Assistant Director in high school. He’s pleased to see that it hasn’t collapsed in the meantime. 

The woman talking to Harry can’t be much older than Louis and she’s got a baby on her hip and a toddler clinging to her leg. She laughs at something Harry says and by the time Louis reaches them, she’s turning toward the stairs. 

“Yeah, thanks Anna, but we don’t need baby Jesus here until the dress rehearsal. I’m really sorry about the confusion,” Harry tells her. “It’s been a little crazy around here this week.” 

“I’m just glad the pageant’s still on.” 

They both see Louis at the same moment, the woman’s brow lifting curiously and Harry’s eyes widening comically. 

“Mr. Tomlinson! Oh my god!” Samantha Peters, the unofficial leader of Louis’ ‘Lunch Crew,’ has jumped up off the couch and is running toward him across the room. “My mom _said_ you go here, but I’ve never ahhh-“ Her words dissolve into a happy squeal as she throws her arms around his middle. 

Pulling back, she says, “This is so cool.” 

“Yeah, it is,” Harry agrees. He’s beaming and Louis remembers the way he’d wiggled his eyebrows after ordering the sausage tacos. (Why had he done that if he thought they were having a professional meal?) “You are a literal answer to my prayers!” 

The woman with the babies waves a goodbye and heads back upstairs. 

“So,” Samantha says. “Pastor Harry. I know you said that we were going to stick with Miss Tinsley’s casting, but Mr. Tomlinson can tell you that I’d make a _way_ better Narrator than Eva. She doesn’t even like to talk in front of people and I was Lady MacBeth last spring.” 

She’s looped an arm through Louis’ own, which have come to fold across his chest. 

“Um. I don’t know.” Harry bites his lip. “Louis, are you here to help? Really? Even though you’re so busy?” 

Louis nods, once, reluctantly. He’d listened to Lucy’s voicemail a dozen times and the way she said ‘that show means so much to the kids who are in it,’ choked him up every damn one of them. He knows this is what she would have wanted. Next year, he can help Harry find someone else, someone more church-y, but at this late notice, Louis can’t see any way around it: he needs to direct the St. Andrew’s Christmas Pageant. It was practically a woman’s dying wish. 

“Mr. Tomlinson is _the_ best, Pastor Harry.” Samantha scoots herself even closer to Louis. 

Harry beams at him and claps his hands together. “Awesome. Yeah. Okay.” He looks around the room, takes a breath, and meets Louis’ gaze. 

“Why don’t you go over there with the older kids. Samantha- she’s _supposed_ to be our Mary this year- can show you the script. I think they have a dozen or so copies somewhere. Maybe you can do a read-through or something. I don’t think Lucy’s done that with them yet. She only sent out the cast list last Sunday night. And I’ll take the little ones onto the stage with me to learn some of the carols. I meant to send out a message for them not to come- the under tens, I mean- but with everything else last night, or really over the last few days, I forgot. One of the moms, _your_ mom actually, signed up to be down here to help, but she forgot that she was also scheduled to be up in the kitchen or something. She wasn’t really clear. Or maybe she was, but there was a lot going on after worship.” 

“Hey, Harry.” Louis pulls free from Samantha’s grip to pat Harry’s shoulder. “Calm down. It’s gonna be fine.” 

Harry licks his lips and looks Louis in the eye. “The pageant is really big deal around here, isn’t it?” 

Louis nods. “Yeah. And this year’s will be the best one yet. For Lucy.” 

Harry’s worried expression breaks, transforming into a smile. “Thank you so much. I think this is what she would have wanted.” 

Louis nods, unable able to hold back his own smile that forms at hearing his thoughts put into words. “I think so, too. That’s why I’m here.” 

~

Samantha is not wrong. Eva, who’s been cast with the most lines, is shier than a turtle. She reads her lines clearly, but softly. And she doesn’t make eye contact with anyone, not Louis and not her peers. He doesn’t grant Samantha’s request, though, because Lucy took casting very seriously and would not have put Eva in the role if she didn’t have good reason. 

The read-through runs smoothly. The script is simple- not much different than one he’d memorized when he’d been in middle school. He’d had the kid playing Joseph last year in class and a couple of the others are in drama-related activities at their own schools. They all respond well to his teasing and direction- perhaps because Samantha, of course, is the leader of the lot here too. 

The only distraction is Harry’s lilting baritone, guiding the little kids through Away in a Manger and Silent Night. Once, he finds himself glancing over to see Harry squatting, arm around Louis’ own curly haired little sister, coaxing her to sing along, which she does, with a boisterous yodel of delight. 

Later, as they watch the kids filter up the stairs and out into the parking lot, Harry says to Louis, “Really, honestly, thanks again. I could not do this without you.” 

“I had fun. I think it’ll be fun. It’s not like I have anything better to do with my Sunday afternoons.” 

“I thought you said this was a busy time of year.” Harry’s frowning, brows drawing together. 

“It’s really not so bad. I was just caught off guard. I didn’t know that’s why you’d asked me to dinner. I thought- actually, never mind what I thought. But you surprised me, that’s all.” 

Harry’s expression darkens. “Wait. What did you think? Why did you think I asked you dinner?” 

Louis casts his eyes away and shrugs, certain Harry’s caught on but not wanting to admit his fuck-up aloud.

“Did you think it was a pastoral visit? We should have prayed.” Harry bites his lip and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. Of course, that’s what you thought. I’m your pastor. We made the plans at Lucy’s _funeral_. Really callus of me not honor your grief. I’m sorry. I just- I’ve been so worried about the pageant that I didn’t even think about where you might be at with Lucy’s death and all.” 

That surprises a laugh out of Louis. “No,” he says. “Trust me when I say I definitely did not expect you to pray with me.” 

Harry’s chewing his lip again. “I talked too much, didn’t I? I’m sorry.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and bites the proverbial bullet. “It’s fine. You talked just the right amount. I kept asking you questions because I thought we were on a date.” 

“Oh, um.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Really?” 

“God, yeah. Don’t act so surprised. You asked me out to dinner and drinks. You knew I liked men. I thought- It’s not that crazy.” 

“It wasn’t a date.” 

“I figured that out. Yeah. Thank you.” Louis can’t help but laugh. Sourly. 

“I wouldn’t’ve.” Harry shakes his head. “Not like that. Not after doing a funeral for your friend. What kind of person do you think I am?” 

Louis shrugs and pulls at the bottom of his sweater. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s your game. Maybe you’ve figured out that’s the best time to put the moves on someone.” 

Harry steps closer and Louis is hit with a whiff of his cologne. “You’d _know_ if I were putting the moves on you.” 

His eyes are dark. Is he putting the moves on Louis _now_? “Yeah?” 

Harry steps back and shakes his head, frowning suddenly. “That would be _so_ inappropriate. I can’t be _lieve_ you thought…” 

“You’d better shut up about it if you want me to keep helping you with this pageant.” 

Harry nods. “Sure. Understood.” 

“Good.”

“Yeah. Definitely.” Harry bites his lip. And then sets it free. “But you really thought I would-“ 

“Harry,” Louis warns. 

“Sorry.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you all are as bad as Louis. To think Harry, especially as /pastor/, would have been in the right to ask Louis out on a date after a funeral! For shame! ;)
> 
> All your feedback has been a blast to go through. I had no idea posting every day could be this much fun. Thank you!!! <3 <3 <3


	6. Chapter 6

_Tuesday, December 6_

_10:10am_

Harry stares at a Facebook message from Stacy Peters, Samantha’s mom. She’s asking- quite pointedly- why her daughter does not have a larger speaking role in this year’s pageant and heavily implying that Harry shouldn’t be trusted to handle the production when he does not have a background in theater. Three dots indicate she isn’t finished either. 

James ducks his head and shoulders into Harry’s office, smacking the doorframe with his open palm. “Hello, Harry.” 

It’s the first time he’s spoken to Harry since returning from his conference last week, unless Harry counts James’ sermon (a treatise on the joys and woes of parenting in the age of iPads) or the text message he’d sent suggesting Harry take Monday off. 

He’s smiling at Harry as if he knows something Harry does not. “Heard nothing but good things about your handling of Lucy’s service.” 

Harry flushes. “As if anyone would say anything else.” 

James steps more fully into the room. “St. Andrew’s last associate pastor four years back-“ 

“-Was forced to resign due to a ‘lack of professionalism.’ I remember.” Harry thinks about that a lot. The panic that wells up in the back of his throat when considering that he could easily meet the same fate motivates him to keep his hair short and his ass at the church far more than his contracted forty hours a week. 

“Speaking of which,” James frowns. Another message from Stacy Peters pops up on Harry’s screen. Harry closes his computer. He doesn’t really want to be subject to another critique this morning. 

Sure, she and the whole Peters family are still reeling from her mother-in-law’s death a few weeks back and Harry’s willing to cut her a little slack, but the passive aggressive nastygram still irritates him (and scares him a little, all things considered).

“I won’t be in the office Wednesday or Thursday.” 

“You what?” Harry asks because he thinks James just informed him that he’s leaving the place to Harry _for the second week in a row._

“Boundaries training in Pittsburgh. I’ve received a strongly worded email from the conference minister that if I don’t renew my certification on my own, he’ll contact the chair of the board here about it.” James makes a face. “I was kind of hoping no one would notice and I could put it off another year or two. Boundaries training is the pits.” 

Harry remembers. A modern hell and brimfire sermon series on the dangers of fucking parishioners, i.e. de-frocking, extensive court costs and legal fees, and, potentially, jail time. 

Don’t fuck them when they’re sick. Don’t fuck them when their husbands are sick. Don’t fuck them when they’re going through a divorce. Don’t fuck them if they’ve recently been widowed. God forbid you’re ever tempted to even talk to them if they’re under eighteen because you will definitely end up sexually assaulting them. Don’t go on vacation with them because you might end up fucking them on a beach. Don’t go to parties with them because you might end up drunk, in which case you’ll definitely fuck them. Don’t have one on one meetings with them because you might end up fucking on the boardroom table. Don’t become Facebook friends with them because you might end up virtually fucking them. 

Basically, Harry learned from _his_ boundaries training that parishioners are likely to be lurking around every corner, ready to throw themselves at him, and that as unappetizing as it sounds in theory, in practice these Jezebels will be very difficult to resist. 

“No amount of scare tactics are going to impact whether or not pastors fuck people they shouldn’t fuck,” Harry says. 

“Absolutely true. And from what I’ve heard the circumstances in which they’re tempted are rarely as black and white as they’re presented at these workshops. The one time I’ve encountered a situation like that, the woman propositioned _me_. She’d just gotten out of an ugly marriage and I knew she was dealing with really, _really_ low self-esteem issues. I needed to let her down lightly, to find words that wouldn’t damage her any worse.” James purses his lips. “You’re lucky you’re gay. You always have an excuse.” 

Suddenly, Harry remembers Louis’ comments from Sunday night. He thought Harry’d asked him out. 

He’d thought they’d been on a taco date. 

Yesterday, Harry replayed the evening over and over in his mind while baking Christmas cookies, every tip of a measuring cup bringing to mind a different angle of Louis’ smile, a different question he’d asked, a different cadence of his laughter. By every objective standard, before Harry brought up the pageant, they _had_ been on a date. He tries to tell himself that it’s for the better he ruined it. 

Obviously nothing could come of it _and_ he needed to ask Louis’ help with the play. 

Still, a small voice in head insists, it hadn’t been just another date, it’d been a really good date. A great date. Harry hadn’t been on a _great_ date in at least nine months. 

(He and the law student he’d been seeing all spring had decided to call it off when Harry realized he’d be moving to western Pennsylvania instead of New York City. Niall warned Harry that he was making a mistake, much harder to find dates when you had to tell people you were a ‘pastor’ not just a ‘religion student,’ probably even harder than it was to find a job. Harry’s long list of OK Cupid misses is a testament to Niall’s wisdom.) 

“So your boundary training is up to date, I imagine. But if you’d like to tag along there’s probably still space.” 

“Yeah, I’m good. Anyway, one of us has to be here to put out the fires,” Harry says. He’d taken the biannual training just this spring, a prerequisite of ordination. And he’s still clear on the lesson: do not fuck parishioners. Very clear. So clear. 

James grins. “You’re a saint. What did you do with your day off? Something relaxing, I hope.”

“Christmas baking,” Harry tells him. “The book group is doing their annual cookie exchange on Wednesday. I had to do a dozen dozen.” 

“Should have sent my Max over to help you. They made cookies in preschool two weeks ago and he won’t stop asking to do it again.” 

Harry thinks that babysitting his boss’ kids probably defeats the purpose of a day off, but he likes Max and Carey and Christmas baking is so _lonely_ by oneself so he says, “Next time.” 

“I’m going to brunch with the Exec team. When I get back, we can check in on how things have been around here.” 

Harry’d been planning on spending the whole day out visiting at the hospital and nursing homes since he’d missed doing so yesterday. The sick and elderly will have to wait a little longer. “Sounds great.” 

~

_12:05pm_

Harry frowns at his phone. He opens his text chain with James and then closes it. He promised Rosa Mayer he’d be over by 12:30. She’s probably already started the hot water for tea. He knows she lives alone and can’t drive anymore. Sometimes she goes for days at a time without seeing another soul in person.

He opens a new text, _James, off to visit Rosa. Be back well before 2 unless she’s read a new biography of a dead president. Then I’m probably out for the rest of the afternoon._

James texts him back, _you’re truly a saint._ Harry knows this was one of the reasons he was so eager to hire an associate; he hates visiting elderly shut-ins. Says it’s too time consuming, but Harry suspects it bores and depresses him. 

Harry doesn’t mind it, though. Old people usually offer him hard candy and good stories. 

He turns the dial to the Christmas radio station on the drive over. Santa Claus is Coming to Town blares over his tinny speakers and he _knows_ he’s done for. This one always gets stuck in his head, rolling around on repeat well into the new year. 

When he pulls up in the driveway of Rosa’s tiny brick home, he can see her standing at the widow, in her pink sweater, thin arms folded across her frail frame, watching for him. 

He un-clicks his seatbelt and rushes inside. 

“Hi, Pastor. So glad you could come,” Rosa says, taking his coat and hanging it over the back of a nearby chair. She looks up at him for a long moment. He already knows what’s coming next. “How tall are you?”

“Five, eleven,” Harry answers. 

“My Howard was six foot,” she tells him. “That was tall for a man back then.” 

“Still is, I say,” Harry replies, straight from the script. 

“I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?” Rosa shakes her head. “I like to think I’m not one of _those_ old ladies. My sister Marla in Tennessee says I should just embrace it, but that’s what brings you to an early death. You go fast when you let it get to you. That’s what happened to Iris.” 

Iris had been 90 when she died of a bad infection two months back, still a couple of years younger than the 93-year-old Rosa. Suffice it to say, Harry does not think either could be described as having ‘an early death.’ 

“Speaking of my Howard,” Rosa continues, leading Harry into the kitchen. “Look at the roses he bought me for my birthday. He’s given the exact same to me every birthday since we started dating. Seventy-one years. Isn’t that lovely?” 

On the small wooden table sit a dozen long stem red roses in a crystal vase, the sweet scent of them filling the room. 

Howard has been dead for ten of those seventy-one years. 

“Oh?” 

“I haven’t lost my mind, really I haven’t,” Rosa assures him. “Just a week before he died, he asked to speak privately with my granddaughter, Linda. I’ve told you about her- the one that thinks she needs to check up on me. She drives me to church sometimes. Well, he told her that his dying wish was that he could continue the tradition from Heaven. He gave her some money and told her to make sure they always arrived exactly on the first.” 

She stares at the flowers for a moment and her eyes fill with tears. She purses wrinkled lips and shakes her head. “He was such a good man.” 

“Sounds like it,” Harry says, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

She blinks twice and then her face transforms into smile. “You like tea, if I remember right? I’ve got a pot on, but it’s not quite ready yet so sit down.” 

They settle into rickety chairs on either side of the little wooden kitchen table. Rosa pushes the vase out of the way so that they can see each other across it. 

“How have you been feeling this week?” Harry asks. She’d a bad cough last time he’d been to see her and he’s been worrying ever since. 

“Oh good. I’m always good,” she brushes him off. “My niece mailed me an article about this play ‘Hamilton’, have you heard of it? Sounds like just my kind of thing, except for the swearing. I’m not sure I’d like that. But I’m about hundred pages into the book now and there are some really interesting stories. Surprising. Did you know-” 

Turns out, Harry _does_ know- he’s read the book too, but he listens anyway, and thinks about the magnitude of seventy-one years of birthday roses. 

~

_3:00pm_

Harry stares at his open Bible, the words of the passage blurring together. He’s read the story of the birth of Jesus dozens of times, heard it hundreds, maybe thousands of times. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to come up with something _new_ to say about it. 

His phone vibrates. It’s in a large blue mug sitting on the corner of his desk, out of reach as long as his butt stays in the chair. He put it there, of course, so that he’d be less able to use it as a distraction. His Christmas sermon is still weeks out- he knows James wouldn’t start preparing until a day or two before- but Harry hasn’t preached since his giant fuck-up last month and Christmas Sunday seems like a Big Deal. 

James has assured him that it isn’t, that he will have a smaller crowd than usual. Christmas Eve, the Christmas pageant, that’s the Big Deal. Logically, Harry knows James must be correct. If it were a Big Deal, James would preach it himself, instead of beginning his winter vacation. But Harry can’t shake the more intuitive sense that a Christmas sermon should have substance and force, the substance and force of the birth of the savior.

His phone vibrates again and Harry reasons that it could be urgent. Perhaps it’s James texting him about an emergency hospital call he needs to make. Perhaps one of the nursing home folks has passed. 

He lifts himself out of the chair and grabs the phone, swiping the screen open. It’s two text messages, from Louis. 

_Hey Harry, Louis Tomlinson here. Got your number from my mom. I’m wondering if you’ll be at the church tomorrow afternoon._

_I’d like to meet you there. Around four._

Harry drops the phone and stares at the screen. Why does Louis want to meet? Has he decided not to direct the pageant after all? 

He texts Louis, _Sure. I can be there._

Immediately, Louis pings back, _Thanks [Thumbs up emoji]_

Harry frowns. And then he prays. _God, do not let me down. I need Louis to stick around. Please God, just give me this one thing._


	7. Chapter 7

_Wednesday, December 7_

_4:15pm_

Louis’ back aches. It’s been a long day and he spent a good part of the last hour on the floor chatting to one of his students whose ‘legs stopped working’ and as such couldn’t possibly make it to the other side of the school for his math test. 

He breathes in the quiet of his car. He’s tempted to take a page out of the kid’s book and text Harry that his own legs have stopped working. The thought of facing Harry after the not-actually-a-date and then confessing that he’d _thought_ it _was_ a date- it’s nerve-wracking. No way it won’t be awkward. 

The red brick edifice of St. Andrew’s emerges from behind the university buildings nearby, looming over Louis. Its sharp corners and stained glass windows feel familiar, a recurring set piece from his childhood. It had started out a warm and happy place, but he’d grown out of it quickly, off to larger audiences and more elaborate designs. Or so he’d thought. 

Over the years, he’d learned that with a shift in lighting or the appearance of a new character, a set piece could be completely transformed. As he pulls into the tiny parking lot outside the building, he neither feels as though he’s entering the exciting playground of his childhood nor the too small stage of his youth. The sky is bright blue and expansive and Louis feels like he’s walking into the pitch black of a cave without spelunking gear, or even a headlamp. 

He pulls at the handle of the heavy red front door and finds it locked. He curses and looks around for a doorbell. Nothing. 

That’s when he remembers the back door, by the smaller lot, the one that opens into the offices. He considers moving his car, but decides he might as well delay the inevitable continuation of his humiliation with a walk around the building. 

The church secretary- she’s worked in the office since he was a child and he’s embarrassed to admit he can’t think of her name- is locking the door, a heavy bag over her shoulder. When she turns around to see him, she beams. 

“Louis Tomlinson! Look at you, all grown up!” 

Louis draws a breath and beams back. “Yeah, hi! So great to see you!” 

She marches up to him and meets his eyes. They’re almost exactly the same height. “You probably don’t remember me-“ 

“I remember you.” 

“-but I’m Sally. Your mom keeps me updated on all the latest with you. Says the February production of Grease you’ve got your kids working on is going to be spectacular.” 

Louis blinks and pulls at the bottom of his jacket. “We haven’t even begun the casting. We won’t meet for rehearsals after school till the kids come back from Christmas break. My mom is making things up to impress you.” 

Sally shakes her head. “Nonsense. You’re so talented. We’re so _proud_ of you. I just know Harry is _thrilled_ that you’re going to help with the Christmas pageant. He’s been running around like a chicken with his head cut off trying to navigate his first Advent, bless his heart.” 

“Yeah, well, Lucy had asked me before she- you know.” 

Sally’s grey eyes fill with tears and she reaches up to squeeze his bicep. “Full circle. Life’s that way sometimes, isn’t it?” 

Suddenly, Louis feels his own eyes grow damp. Throat too tight to speak, he nods. 

A tear streaking through the pale make-up on her cheek, Sally releases him and nods to the building. “I’ll just let you in. And do check-in with Harry. He’s been locked in his office for at least an hour and half now. I’m sure he could use some company.” She winks and then turns so quickly Louis thinks he might have imagined it. 

~

Harry jumps out of his seat at the sound of Louis’ knuckles wrapping on his office door, which is already open. Leaning forward to steady himself on the desk, Harry says, “Come in.” 

“Sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.” 

Harry moves around the desk, shaking his head. “No, god no. Just working on my Christmas sermon.” 

The desk is covered in large books, most of which are open, stacked atop each other in a mountain range of waterfalling cream paper and black type. 

“Already?” 

Harry shrugs. “I figure I have the time now and my last one didn’t go so well. What’s up? I was surprised you wanted to come in today. Thought you weren’t really a church person.” 

Louis frowns. 

“Do you want to have seat, so we can talk?” He gestures to the two plush chairs on the opposite side of his desk. Between them sits a small table and box of Kleenex. 

“A seat? I don’t think- I’m here to see the set and costumes. When I was a kid Lucy had a whole closet filled with assorted Christmas pageant props. I want to know what I’m working with.” 

Harry’s eyes widen. “You’re not quitting the play?” 

“No?” 

The relief on Harry’s face is so dramatic as to be comical. Louis doesn’t think he could mimic the expressiveness, let alone coach it out of an actor. 

“Wonderful. Of course. Forget I said anything.” 

“You were up all night worrying about it, weren’t you?” 

Harry bites his lip and then forces a small, insulted smile. “No. That would be totally paranoid. Which I am not.” 

Louis laughs. “Sure.” 

Harry leads Louis to the basement storage room, but neither of them can locate the light switch, so they stumble around the space with their phones as flashlights for ten minutes before they come across the big set pieces Louis remembers using as a teen. 

The paper mache palm tree has at least three fewer leaves than Louis remembers and the remaining two are a much paler green. (He thinks. Hard to tell with so little light.) The roof of the stable bows inward and Louis studies it for several long seconds, imagining the whole thing toppling down amidst screaming children on Christmas Eve. 

“This is not-“ Louis begins. “Maybe she kept newer material elsewhere?” 

Harry’s shadowy shoulders shrug. “With the costumes?” 

Louis nods to his left. “I think that’s them.” 

He can see a stack green and red plastic tubs with labels duct-taped to their tops, but he has to crawl over several broken pews piled atop each other to reach them. He brushes the lid of the first one he can reach expecting a thick layer of dust to peel away from it. His fingers come away grimy, but not so much so as to be worrying. These haven’t been tucked away _that_ long, then. 

Sure enough, Lucy’s blocky printing reads, _COSTUMES - KINGS AND SHEPHERDS_

_“_ Aha!” Louis crows and beneath his knees, the top pew wobbles. “Shit.” 

“Be careful!” Harry cries. “Don’t want to take you to the Emergency Room. Traffic in that direction is really bad this time of day.” 

Louis glances over his shoulder. “That’s why you don’t want to take me to the ER?” 

Harry hums and Louis wishes that he could see Harry’s face, know whether or not he’s smiling, when he says, “The nurses there like me. They always bring me apple juice and graham crackers. It’s not so bad a place to spend an evening with a parishioner. They have special clergy parking, too. That’s nice.” 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” The pew lurches and when Louis jumps down off it, Harry’s beside him with an arm out to steady him. 

“Maybe,” Harry says. “The nurses do like me, though.” 

After hauling the pews out of the way, they each carry two of the four large tubs. Harry handles his much more easily than Louis and not because he’d chosen the lighter of the bunch- Louis had- and Louis can’t help but imagine what Harry would look like doing the same task, only shirtless. 

Back under the fluorescent lights of the main room with the stage, Harry snaps the lid off the top container- the one labeled MARY, JOSEPH, INNKEEPER, NARRATOR- and pulls out a pale blue robe. He holds it up to his chest and Louis notes with pathetic interest that it would not fit his broad shoulders. 

Of course, it wouldn’t. It was designed for a thirteen year old. Get a _grip._

“I think these are the same ones we had when I was kid,” he says. The mom of the girl who played the Mary to his Joseph had sewn them, he remembers. Or tried to. He tugs the pink robe free from beneath a pile of cream-colored head wraps, and inspects the hem. It’s as uneven as he remembers. 

When he looks up, Harry’s watching him with a small smile on his face. “You think they’ll still fit you?” He balls up the Joseph robe and throws it at Louis. 

Louis scowls at him. “No. I was small for thirteen.” 

Harry dimples. “Not surprising.” 

Louis glares and then smiles and blusters, “You must mean because my siblings are also small for their age. Runs in the family.” 

Harry’s teeth tug on his lip. He murmurs, “No, I mean because you’re still small.” 

Louis looks away, and runs a hand through his fringe. “I’m a lot bigger than I was when I was thirteen.” 

“Okay, sure,” Harry nods, voice even. Reasonable, like. His attention turns back to the bin of costumes, scrounging up several ropes and inspecting a spot on the brown innkeeper’s robe. 

Louis _is_ much larger than he was at thirteen. He’s a grown man and he does not appreciate being mocked for his smaller stature. He’s dealt with enough of that in the theater world. (A director once told him that he was too small for the bit part of ‘gardener.’ Apparently, gardeners are supposed to be over six foot and have bulging pecs.) 

He shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of treatment at a church, for fuck’s sake. 

Twisting and turning the rough blue fabric, he finally finds the opening to the Joseph robe and buries himself inside it. His arms slide through the loose sleeves and then through the large opening for his head, light appears. He aims for it. 

“It still fits.” Harry’s voice rumbles with laugher. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Louis insists, looking down at an old costume that does indeed still fit him. Perfectly. 

“It must have been huge on you as a kid.” Harry tugs at the sleeve and it flutters at Louis’ side, mesmerizing him for a moment. 

He flicks a glare up at Harry. “No,” he grinds out. “Actually, I was an early bloomer. I remember now. That’s why it fits perfectly.”

Harry nods with an, “I see,” and pulls the lid off another box: ANIMALS 

“A cheetah? A zebra? An elephant? Do Joseph and Mary end up at an ancient Israelite stable or at a modern zoo?” 

Louis fingers the soft, spotted velvet in Harry’s hands. He’d bought the costume for Doris just last year. “Lucy let the kids choose which animals they wanted to be. She believed that helped them learn to make choices and take ownership of their creative work.” 

Harry blinks. Then, he lifts a corner of his mouth. “Your mom offered me a stack of photo albums and home videos. Said that they might give me an idea of what’s been done in the past.” 

Louis nods. He thinks of the photo he’d saved as the lockscreen on his phone with Doris’ spotted head resting on Ernie’s striped shoulder, both of their faces covered in make-up, standing on his mom’s snow-covered front step. 

“Well,” Harry says, clicking the lid back into place. “Seems like we’re good on the costume front.” 

Louis nods. The little ones will have to pick through them next Sunday to see if they can all find animals that suit them. But, despite their faded coloring and (still) wonky hems, most of the main cast’s costumes are in tact. 

He reaches behind his head to tug at the back of the Joseph robe and pull it over his head. It sticks for a moment around his shoulders, vindicating him. He _has_ grown a bit. 

Harry takes the robe out of Louis’ hands, his nose twitching as the fabric billows out in front of him. A sniff. Louis stomach plummets. Does he smell? Has his deodorant worn off already? Fuck. He _cannot_ seem to make a good impression on this guy. 

Harry’s stacking the boxes on top of one another when Louis speaks again. “So I think I’ll come back tomorrow. We can do some more of this excavation.” 

Harry’s lip slips between his teeth. God, Louis can’t help but sound so presumptuous. Of course, Harry doesn’t have time to spend _another_ afternoon with him down here. He probably didn’t even have time to spent this first one. 

“By ‘we,’” Louis adds, feeling inspired to clear things up, let Harry off the hook. “I mean me and Zayn. He’s this incredible artist. If anyone can revive or rebuild the sets, it’s him. Obviously, you don’t have to join us. Just, will the doors be open?” 

Harry’s frowns. “You and _Zayn_ the _incredible_ artist will still need a key to the closet.” 

So much for letting Harry off the hook. “Look, I ran into Sally on the way in. Maybe she can help us.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, smiling again. “I can help again. I mean, that storage room is dangerous. And I do know my way around the hospital, just in case.” 


	8. Chapter 8

_Thursday, December 8_

_5:32pm_

By the time Zayn and Louis arrive, Harry’s the only one left in the building and he has to leave his office and walk down a winding hallway to let them in. 

Louis is pink. Pink nose, pink cheeks, pink lips, pink ears. 

“You must be freezing,” Harry says, taking in Louis’ open jacket and gloveless (also pink!) hands. A few snowflakes float in the air around him. A pretty winter picture. The prettiest he’s seen in a long time. 

“Yeah, we are.” A smooth voice captures Harry’s attention. It belongs to a second man in a purple sweater and matching scarf. 

“You must be Zayn,” Harry sticks his hand out. “I’m Harry, the associate pastor here. Thank you so much for-“ 

Zayn nods beyond Harry and with a smile says, “Maybe we can do introductions inside, where it’s warm?” 

Harry nods, “Of course.” 

“Zayn, you’ll have to forgive Harry,” Louis says, stepping inside. “He doesn’t spend much time with people like us.” 

Harry tries to keep his expression neutral. “What’s that supposed to mean? People like you?” 

Louis licks his lips, barely restraining a smile. “People under forty.” 

Harry barks out a laugh. “You got me there.” 

Zayn rubs his palms against his thighs and looks between them. “So what about this set you want me to help design?”

“Lead the way.” Louis wiggles his eyebrows at Harry and gestures toward the stairs. 

Harry tries not to glance over his shoulder. Louis and Zayn are whispering behind him and it’s not that he’s curious about what they are saying- though, he _is_ curious about that - he’d like another look at them. Another long look. 

Harry _knows_ it’s not polite to stare, not like he wants to. 

Harry’s sat in classes forced to stare at golden haired, blue-eyed professors, trying desperately to focus on what they are saying and not the lovely line of their arm or the tantalizing press of their lips. He’s been assigned to group projects with strong jawed football jocks and long-legged, librarian-types. Hell, just yesterday he’d been trying to restrain himself from teasing laughs out of Louis, just to see the shine of his smile and flash of his teeth. 

So Harry’s relatively practiced at controlling the intensity of his interest in beautiful men. 

But Louis is proving trouble. Lots of trouble. 

And Zayn, well, Louis had mentioned that he was an artist, but he had failed to mention that the man himself was _art_. Maybe because he wanted to keep Zayn’s beauty to himself. 

Not maybe. _Probably._

When they reach the basement, Zayn scoffs, finally giving Harry an excuse to turn around. 

Zayn glares at the stage, eyebrows raised. “Louis, this is smaller than the one in your classroom.” 

An urge to defend the stage, or rather dais, or, perhaps, more accurately, the _platform_ , rises up in Harry. But he doesn’t heed it because he knows that Zayn is right. It’s a way too small of a stage, especially for rehearsing a pageant that involves _all_ the kids in the church. 

“Hey, now,” Louis chirps. “I built that stage with my own two hands.” 

Zayn nods. “That explains it.” 

“The stage is just for rehearsals. The actual pageant will take place in the sanctuary. So fuck off,” Louis says and then winces. “Sorry for swearing, Harry. Zayn brings it out in me.” 

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Harry says, shrugging. After a moment’s hesitation, he adds,“You can say whatever the fuck you want, as far as I’m concerned.” 

Louis gaze meets Harry’s, his eyes widening, and then he laughs. “That just sounds wrong.”

Harry rolls his eyes and turns toward the storage closet. 

To Harry’s back, Louis murmurs, “Say it again. Say what you said again.” 

Harry licks his lips and then, over his shoulders, throws, “You can say whatever the fuck you want around me.” 

“Ah. Ha!” Louis laughs again, harder this time. 

“I’ve sworn in front of you before,” Harry insists, turning around fully to throw him a pointed shrug. 

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’d remember it if you had. You sound so _awkward_.” 

“Okay, settle down, kids,” Zayn coos. “How large is the Sanctuary? If I’m going to help you with this, I need to know the details.” 

“We can go up there in a minute. I don’t want to bother Harry too much,” Louis tells him. 

“You’re not bothering me at all. Trust me. The last thing in the world you are doing is bothering me. You are _such_ a lifesaver. I’d be up to my neck in this pageant stuff if it weren’t for your help. So _really_. Please don’t worry about that.” He means it, too. When he’d imagined organizing all this by himself, he’d seen long nights hunched over the computer editing the script, lonely Saturday afternoons with his dinky electric screwdriver attempting to put together a stable and a manger, and long, _long_ Sundays, hopelessly struggling to make middle schoolers actually _listen._ Not a happy picture. 

He flings the door open to the storage area and flicks on the light. He’d come back down here this morning with Sally special to find it. “Here you go, gentlemen.” 

Zayn steps inside, heading straight for the Christmas sets. Louis hangs back. 

“I don’t think we’ll be here more than an hour. We don’t have much in terms of equipment today. We’ll just make a plan and be out of your hair.” 

Harry resists the urge to glance at his phone. He’d meant what he said about them not being a bother. It’s just Louis and Zayn showed up an hour later than he’d expected them, an hour later than Louis arrived the evening before, at least. He’s been locked in his office for the second afternoon in a row and he’d really wanted to run out and grab dinner before his Education Team meeting at seven. Looks like that’s a no-go if he’s keeping the building open for these two. 

“I’ll um-“ He considers offering to help them, but then decides he’d probably be in the way. “I’ll be in my office. You know where it is if you need me, right?” 

Louis smiles, softly, and nods. Then he says, “Say it again.” 

“What?” Harry asks. 

Louis nods, eyes serious. “You know, what you said before.” 

Harry flicks him off. 

~

Harry lights the three candles on his desk. Creator. Christ. Holy Spirit. 

Harry’s not big on confession. The Church has used guilt as weapon against already vulnerable people far too often to make it a comfortable ritual for Harry. That’s one of the reasons he didn’t end up working in the Catholic church. 

But sometimes. Sometimes he makes mistakes, mistakes that he feels helpless to undo, mistakes he that he can’t seem to stop making over and over and over again. 

Sometimes he needs to ask forgiveness. 

Now is one of those times. Not for the swearing. He doesn’t think God gives two shits about that. No, he’s feeling a tad bit guilty for just how long his gaze had lingered on Louis’ mouth and how tempted he’d been to spend the rest of the afternoon with the two handsome men helping him _with his job_. As _pastor_. 

He’s kneeling, mind wandering the wilderness between prayer and worry, when he hears a knock on the door to his office. 

The door creaks open and Harry jumps to his feet, eyes flashing between Louis’ face and the candles. He leans over to blow them out. 

It’s stupid, but having someone walk in on his private prayer time is a bit like having someone walk in on his toilet time or shower time. As a pastor, of course people know that he prays. But closing his eyes and lifting to God, even in silence, all his anxieties, feels like a vulnerable act, like he’s stripped himself naked. 

He has to admit, he’d rather Louis see him actually naked than in prayer like this. 

And the urge to _act_ on that desire, that was exactly why he needed the prayer in the first place. Oops. 

Louis backs right back out of the office. 

“Hey, Louis,” Harry says, brushing the dust off his pants. 

Louis turns around. He looks as embarrassed as Harry feels. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

“No, what?” Harry heaves out a laugh. “You were not interrupting.” 

Louis lifts a skeptical brow. “No?” 

Harry rolls his eyes, steadier already. “God definitely understands and I’m finished, anyway. What’s up?” 

“I just wanted to let you know that we’re out, Zayn and I. I’ll text you about when we both might be able to come back next week to do some more work on the set, if that’s okay.” 

Harry nods, knowing that he will be waiting on that stupid text message all weekend. Because it’s not like he has anything he’s going to be doing, aside from preparing for worship. 

Except, he realizes, he _is_ doing something else. 

“Louis, um, hey,” he says before he can stop to think about it. 

Louis folds his arms across his chest and leans on the doorway, a soft smile on his face. Harry thinks he must use this smile on his students, amused, but patient, and, perhaps, a little curious. 

“I know you said you’re not into the whole church thing.” That’s a terrible lead off. Never remind people why they might want to say ‘no’ before they do. He’s _definitely_ heard that in at least one leadership training. So Harry tries to brighten his tone, bat his eyes a little, as he continues, “But the young adults from the church are all going to Winterfest together on Saturday night. You should come.” 

Louis’ face sours. “Winterfest? Really?” 

Harry’s stomach drops. James insisted to Harry that Winterfest was one of the most beloved Bradston traditions and that everyone would want to go. All the _other_ young adults with whom he’d spoken about it had appeared excited. 

Still, the flyer that had been delivered to the church featured TextArt, so Harry’s a little leery. He asks, “Is it that lame?” 

Louis shrugs. “Depends on whether or not you think glittery pine-cone Christmas crafts and Christmas karaoke are lame.” 

He’s still leaning comfortably on the doorframe, no indication that he’s about to move. That sounds _amazing_ to Harry, but for some reason he’s hesitant to admit it. “What do you think?” 

Louis shrugs again, eyes glittering, and Harry realizes - Louis’ making fun of him. He’s a drama teacher for fuck’s sake and a great actor. From what Harry’s heard, he was incredibly close to making it on Broadway. 

Harry straightens his shoulders, leans in, and taps a finger to his chin. “You’re last year’s Christmas karaoke champion, aren’t you?” 

That startles a laugh out of Louis. “Really,” he says. “Winterfest is super lame.” 

Harry grins. Sure, it is. “We’re meeting in the parking lot of the church at seven and walking into town. We’ll probably finish the night at the brewery.” 

Louis stands up straight and shakes his head. “Well, don’t come crying to me when it’s just as lame as I said.” 

“What song did you win with? Mariah Carey?” 

Louis flicks him off and saunters away. Harry will take that as a, “Yes and see you tomorrow.” 

~

_9:18pm_

Harry pulls out of the church parking lot and dials his sister. It’s a silver lining of working so late; his and Gemma’s commute times often match up even though they’re on opposite coasts. 

“Bought the ticket!” She answers. “And it wasn’t cheap, so you’d better make my Christmas worth it, little brother. Not too much church stuff and lots of presents.” 

Harry can’t help but grin stupidly at the road in front of him. “Yes! Awesome! Yes! I thought you were leaning toward _not_ coming. I haven’t bought any Christmas decorations because it seemed too much to do for just me. What changed?” 

“Nothing. Things with Steve are still shitty- he took me out to dinner for my birthday, but no gift. Who doesn’t get their girlfriend of eight months a gift for her birthday? I had to play it off like it was no big deal, of course.” 

“You didn’t have to,” Harry reasons. He wouldn’t’ve. 

“I didn’t want to look greedy and it was a very nice dinner. But, like, I _know_ he’s making six figures. Ugh. Anyway, I think I need a little perspective. Plus, he’s flying home to Tennessee. I think his family is, like, super-Christian, so yeah. Going with him seems like a terrible idea all around.” 

“I’m super-Christian,” Harry reminds her. 

“You know what I mean. They’re the bad kind.” 

Harry decides to let the generalization lie. He _does_ know what she means. “I thought you were thinking about spending Christmas with mom and Robin, since Robin’s still not quite back to himself after the knee surgery.” 

Gemma huffs. “Yeah, I was, but then mom told me that he went golfing on Saturday and if he’s healthy enough for that, I think they can manage. You know who else needs support and company? You.” 

Harry can’t argue with that. “I’ll buy a tree and pick up a bottle of that wine you like so much.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thank you to my beta E for the extra work put in on this chapter and the next one- both of which were almost completely scrapped and rewritten and then edited a second time. ty ilu! :)
> 
> also! thank you to E for help on the playlist, which you can now find [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/thejuliusschmidt/playlist/2Ibjf6fe196WLkW9GFiiyb). yay!

_Saturday, December 10_

_8:25pm_

The speaker squeals as Matty the DJ picks up the mic. “Alright, guys! How was that? Can we have another round of applause for all our contestants?”

Harry hoots twice and raises his hands way above his head to clap. “Yeah,” he yells over the roar of the crowd. “Ye-ah.”

The college girls from the church giggle and a few others, closer to Louis’ age, shake their heads, lips turned up in amusement. Harry is by far the loudest person in the crowd. Louis would not have predicted that.

Matty calls, “Are you ready to choose a winner?” His gaze connects with Louis’. They’re somewhere between friends and acquaintances- met during Louis’ stint at the local community college. Although, the last time they connected - very drunk in a bar after midnight- Matty had introduced Louis to his girlfriend saying, “Lynn, this is Louis Tomlinson, an acting prodigy, basically famous in New York and my very best friend.”

(Matty is _not_ Louis’ best friend. Liam is and a good one, he is, too. He even volunteered to take a break from helping Zayn at the gallery where a few of his paintings are on display tonight to support Louis’ run for a sixth consecutive Winterfest Christmas Karaoke win.

Louis had turned him down. “Support your boy- I know that’s what you’d rather be doing.”

“I love karaoke,” Liam replied. Which, _true_.

“And yet you’d rather drink shitty Chardonnay and help Zayn court money out rich people.”

“You come first,” Liam insisted.

But Louis knew _that_ wasn’t true. Not anymore.)

“The impartial hosts of the contest- that’s me and Dougie on the soundboard- have chosen a top five. We’ll have you vote for number _one_ by applause. I’m going to list them in no particular order. Because, like I said, we’re totally impartial. No favorites here. First up, eight-year old Emma who sang “Angels We Have Heard on High! Clap your hands if you think Emma should win.”

Into Louis’ ear, Harry whispers, “You got this. I’m gonna make sure you get this.”

“You don’t really don’t have to,” Louis tells him, even though, well, Louis _does_ like to win. And Harry’s whooping and hollering couldn’t hurt his chances.

Harry turns to the others from the church. “Louis should win, right?” he asks.

They all nod, with considerably less enthusiasm than Harry. Honestly, Harry’s enthusiasm for his performance is about on par with Louis’ mom’s for his first solo when he was in elementary school.

Harry doesn’t even know him that well. ( _Yet_ , Louis’ brains adds helpfully.)

Matty calls Louis’ name last. “Last but not least, we have acclaimed Broadway star, Bradston’s very own, the one, the only, the _amazing_ Louis William Tomlinson! MAKE SOME NOISE!”

Harry stands up, shouting and pounding on the table with his fists. Some of the others follow suit. In another corner of the tent, Louis hears and then sees some of his middle school students shrieking as though Louis were Justin Bieber. (He’s not. He has _much_ better hair.)

The grin Louis’ cannot hold back is, quite frankly, embarrassing.

Matty has to shout into the mic to be heard when he announces, “That’s pretty definitive folks. Louis Tomlinson is our _winner_!”

When Louis steps up onto stage to accept his prize, Harry’s cheers finally die down.

“Sixth win in a row and the tenth in twelve years, isn’t it?”

Louis nods and pulls at the sleeves of his coat, bouncing from foot to foot. The losses were in years he did not participate, the two years he lived in the city tied up with Holiday shows.

“For the prize we have spiced and roasted nuts!”

Harry lets out a whoop and then covers his mouth.

Louis leans in to the mic, “I’d like to thank all my dedicated fans. Buy my album on iTunes.”

The tent erupts into another roar of applause.

~

_8:50pm_

Louis relaxes against the hard back of the seat, folds his arms across his chest, and glares at the beer in front of him. It’s too bitter, tastes a little bit like piss flavored puke. He preferred the _blonde_ over the IPA, but hadn’t wanted to hurt Harry’s feelings.

Because Harry had walked Louis up to the bar, arm around his shoulder, and said to the bartender, “You are looking at Bradston’s Winterfest Christmas Karaoke Champion!”

The bartender blinked and then frowned.

“I think he deserves a beer on the house,” Harry blustered on, not put off by her disinterest.

“We don’t-” The girl began but another bartender arranging drinks on a tray beside her had overheard.

“Give him a pour of the new IPA. We’re trying to get more people to try that one.”

Harry clapped Louis on the shoulder. “Not as good as the nuts,” he said. “But I do alright.”

Now, back at the table, some of the others are watching on with interest as Harry grills Louis.

“So you’re a Broadway star? You have _an album_? How did I not know this?” The goofy grin he’s wearing reminds Louis of his middle schoolers when they’re staring at an unexpectedly good grade.

Louis does not want to disappoint him, but he can’t _lie._

“No,” he says. “I’ve never been on Broadway. I was in _one_ play in New York that made some money, but it was really poorly reviewed and I was in a supporting role- really minor.”

Harry’s face falls. “What about iTunes? Do you have a stage name? Cause I’d definitely buy your music.”

Louis laughs. “No, god no. I was just kidding about the album.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, like he doesn’t quite believe Louis. “Come on, tell me. How do I find your stuff?”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m being honest. The only music I’ve put out is a few youtube covers. And that was way back in high school.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, shaking his head. “No, I’ve seen those.”

“You’ve _what?_ ”

“Forget I said that. I haven’t. That’s creepy. Why would I look you-” He turns abruptly to his left. “Kate! How is your Asian Studies class going?”

Kate, who’s been watching Harry and Louis’ conversation closely, laughs, and after a long look at Louis, begins to answer Harry’s question.

~

_9:22pm_

Louis’ mug of beer still looks untouched (because it is.)

His eyes catch on Harry (again), who’s happily downing the ends of his own blonde ale (which he’d ordered at Louis’ recommendation). Harry thumps the mug onto the wooden table and glances around at the group before standing. “I’m off.”

“Oh my gosh! It’s still so early! Do you have a hot date?” Kate asks.

Harry winks at her and her jaw drops, scandalized.

Then, he shakes his head, cackling. “I’m just kidding. Please don’t spread that rumor. I had an early morning at the hospital and I’m exhausted. You guys have fun.”

Louis takes a moment to mimic Harry’s look up and down the table. No one he knows well or wants to, particularly. He’s still not even sure why he’d come. He should have taken Liam up on his offer to spend Winterfest together- it’s practically tradition.

“I’m heading out, too,” Louis says. “I’ll walk back to the parking lot with you.”

“ _Such_ a gentlemen,” someone coos.

“You don’t have to do that. Stay out. Have a good time. Finish your beer. I’m fine to get back.” Louis is not so sure about this. Harry almost led the whole group in the wrong direction twice on their way into town.

“I’m heading home,” he repeats firmly. “Might as well walk together.”

Once they’re out on the street, Harry says, “I knew Christmas Karaoke was your specialty. I just had this tingly feeling about it.”

“Tingly feeling? Tell me more about that.” As soon as the words are out, Louis regrets them. He tugs at the hem of his jacket. This, of course, is why Louis is here tonight and it is also exactly why he should not be here.

Harry’s already turned him down, or as good as. And as for all his enthusiasm for Louis’ karaoke performance, Louis has a feeling he would have given the same hearty showing for anyone from the church who’d gotten up on stage.

“Oh, yeah, you know. I have a good gut.”

“A good gut?” Louis elbows his middle. “I’ll say.”

He’s slender, even all bundled up in a sweater and pea coat. Louis can’t help but admire his broad shoulders and narrow waist. That combination has always been a particular weakness of his.

Harry giggles at the touch, but doesn’t even feign an attempt to move away from Louis.

“Why didn’t you sing?” Louis asks.

“I’m not that good. Besides, I didn’t want to steal the spotlight. I’m always up in front talking and singing and stuff.”

“I bet you have a great voice,” Louis says. “I’ve heard you a little with the kids, but I bet you’re even better rehearsed and with a mic.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m not terrible. Come to worship some time. I lead a song every once in awhile.”

Harry’s gaze is trained straight ahead, but he’s grinning, dimples deep, eyes slitted. He looks young, foolish. Not the least bit exhausted.

“Why did you lie and say you were too tired to stay at the brewery?”

Harry’s gait hitches, but he doesn’t stop. “I _am_ tired.”

“Everyone’s tired. You could have stayed up longer. You’re practically vibrating with your buzz. Which, by the way, you had _one_ beer.”

“Maybe it’s not the alcohol that’s got me vibrating.” Harry’s rough voice practically purrs out that final word and Louis mind instantly transports him somewhere that is certainly far filthier than Harry intended.

A moment later, Harry mutters, “I should not have said that. God. Forgive me. That was _so_ inappropriate. And to be absolutely clear, I was just kidding. I would _never_ wear a- I mean, not while I was at work, I mean. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Louis laughs, helpless. The sound erupts from him and doesn’t stopping. Long seconds later, he’s still hiccupping with it.

“To answer your question honestly...” Each word sounds forced, but when Louis turns to look at him, he thinks he sees a hint of dimple. Hopefully, he’s more amused than mortified. “It’s just polite for pastors to leave the party early. Nobody wants their pastor to see them wasted. I _have_ to leave so that the fun can start. Which is why you should definitely have stayed.”

“So what about the pastor? When does he get to let loose?”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Enough with the innuendos. You are very naughty, Louis.”

Louis chokes. Again, prompted by Harry _himself_ , he’s thinking about Harry’s ass. He throws his weight behind the thought, shoving it out of his mind.

“It’s Saturday night- not even ten yet- the night is still young. You’re obviously not that tired. Let’s go get another drink. I promise, I won’t hold back on your account.” Louis almost smacks himself. It’s not the first time he’s courted a hopeless crush. In the city, he’d spent six weeks pursuing a castmate who _he knew_ had been happily partnered with the same man for ten years. He’d only just stopped himself from trying to make out with the guy at his boyfriend’s birthday party.

But Louis can’t help it; he’s entertained by the chase.

“I can’t be seen out _now_. I’d look like a liar.” They’re almost to the church and Louis senses an opportunity slipping between his fingers.

“You _are_ a liar,” he reminds Harry with a pointed look.

Harry dimples and then quickly covers his smile with a blink and shake of his head. “I actually do have plans. A bottle of red wine, my laptop, and The Christmas Story. It uploaded to Netflix this week and I’ve never watched it all the way through.”

“Really? Never? That’s such a classic. I have the blu-ray _and_ the dvd. You should come over to mine, watch it on the big screen instead of your laptop.”

They’re standing beside Harry’s car now and he’s jingling his keys in his pocket. “Do you have red wine?”

“We can grab some on our way over. There’s like three different wine stores in the neighborhood.”

The big streetlamp beside the parking bathes Harry in a strange mix of light and shadow. “You live in the nice part of town then?”

Louis resists the urge to stick out his tongue. “I also have-“ he reaches into his memory to search his pantry shelves “chips and salsa. From El Rancho.”

Harry blows out a breath and looks up at the sky. “Tempting. I am very, _very_ tempted,” Harry whispers.

Louis doesn’t know which he’s talking about, if he’s tempted by the salsa or the invitation or, perhaps, hopefully, Louis himself.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted yesterday before I heard the news about Louis' mother, but I would have still posted, just as I will post today and tomorrow and the day after that. One of the most powerful and important aspects of religious life- a life that, to me, this advent calendar echoes- is that its rhythms of sabbath and celebration- rhythms that mimic the changing of seasons and rising and setting of the sun- can hold us and steady us when our worlds have been shaken. 
> 
> That said, I know many may choose to stop reading altogether and many may choose to read it much, much later. Take care of yourself. 
> 
> On that note, Jay appears in this chapter and in many going forward. In this story, she is not, nor will she become a hero or a villain- she's Louis' mom. <3

_Sunday, December 11_

_5:55am_

Harry wakes up with his face smashed on his laptop keyboard. The screen is black and when he pushes the power button, fingers moving on autopilot, nothing happens. He reaches for his phone on the bedside table. The lovely, perfect pet of a thing responds to his groggy touch, flashing the time atop the snowy nativity scene he’d chosen for his December lockscreen. 

He sees that he also has text. A photo from Louis. He clicks it to fullscreen. The leg-lamp from The Christmas Story takes up most of a large flatscreen mounted on the wall. The shot also captures a bottle of Shiraz (no glass in sight) and a pair of feet clad in red socks with cartoon reindeer grinning up from the ankles.

Harry’s stomach pulls tight into a knot. He wishes he’d said ‘yes’ to Louis. Instead, he’d made some lame excuse about actually beginning to feel a little sleepy and gone home only pass out after two thirds of a glass of wine, not twenty minutes into the film. 

He hadn’t been concentrating on it anyway, too busy feeling sad and tired and sorry for himself. Here he’d gone and found someone who’d make a perfect friend, who liked Christmas and Mexican food and karaoke and kids. And that someone just happened to be absolutely, one hundred percent, lose-his-job-and-be-forced-to-find-a-new-career-path, off limits. 

He texts back a photo of his black screen and not-quite finished glass of Merlot and then adds, _fell asleep part way through._

Then he plugs his phone in, places his laptop on his nightstand and falls back asleep. 

When he awakens again at his seven am alarm, Louis has replied, _next time I’ll keep you awake._

_~_

_11:40am_

“Wonderful prayer, Harry,” Jay says, giving Harry’s hand a tight squeeze. “We just love having you here in Bradston.” 

“Thanks,” Harry nods. “Louis’ voice last night at karaoke! Your son is something else!” 

She beams at him, lines fanning out around her eyes. He’s caught by her resemblance to Louis: long lashes, button noses, easy smiles. “He is. He said you took home the winning nuts.” 

“Um,” Harry says, looking over to see if James- or _anyone else_ -heard her comment. “I- He said that he didn’t like them.” 

She tilts her head. “He might not, but I sure do. Hope you enjoyed munching on them!” 

With a wink, she’s off and Ashley, the substitute organist, stands her place. “Pastor Harry.” 

“Hey, Ashley. How are you?” Harry sticks his hand out toward her and she crosses her own over her chest. 

“I’m afraid I’m covered in germs. My little Annie’s really sick, so she isn’t going to make it to practice today and-” she sighs. “Neither am I.” 

Harry nods, “Totally understandable.” Internally, of course, he’s _freaking_ out. What the _hell_ is supposed to do with the under tens for the second week in a row _without an accompanist_? 

“Actually,” Ashley continues. “I know I told you that I was happy to accompany the pageant, but with the season turning out so busy and my kids sick, it’s too much. You can find someone else, right?” 

“Sure. Busy season. Really difficult. Sick kids, tough, of course.” Harry nods. Except that, _no._ He _cannot_ find another accompanist. They do _not_ sell those on Amazon, which is where he’s been buying everything that he can’t find at Target. 

But Ashley’s gone and James’ hand is on Harry’s shoulder. “Nice job today. As usual. Now, if everything’s good here, I’m going to sneak out and get in a little private time with the wife while the kids are with you at practice.” 

Harry gazes at him wide-eyed. 

“This time of year, we barely see each other and never without the kids around,” James explains. 

“Sure, yeah,” Harry nods. All he can seem to do today. “Everything’s good here. Great.” 

~

Louis stands up when Harry reaches the bottom of the stairs. He’s been sitting on the stage, with all the kids gathered on the floor at his feet. 

“Pastor Harry,” he greets with grin as bright as his mother’s. “You look well this morning.” 

Harry chews his lip. He’s not really feeling the playful banter. He can, however, wear a convincing smile for the kids. “What’s going on here?” 

Louis turns his own smile to the kids. “Who can tell him?” 

“Mr. Tomlinson was explaining to us how the next couple of rehearsals will go, what we need to get done beforehand and what we need to tell our parents.” It’s Eva, the narrator who speaks up. “Today, we’re going to ‘get loose.’ We need to learn a little about acting, being in character, and, um, using our bodies?” She looks back to Louis as she finishes for confirmation. 

He nods. “Yeah, very good, Eva. That last part is just the middle schoolers. The little ones are working with you and Ashley, right? Where’s Ashley?” 

Harry’s smile is starting to hurt, but like pair of pinchy dress shoes, he keeps wearing it because that’s what’s expected. “We’ll talk about it later.” 

Harry manages to lead the kids in singing through each of the songs twice, though to call it ‘singing’ is generous. It’s more like rhythmic shouting. Probably not the ideal tone for a Christmas Eve service. 

Even before the final note ends on their second round of Silent Night, Ernie starts in, “Pastor Harry.” 

“Yes, Ernie,” Harry says. Several other kids begin to squirm. 

“Knock, knock.” 

“Who’s there?” He can’t resist asking; knock, knock jokes are his weakness. 

“Mary.” He leans in toward Harry with toothy smile.

“Mary who?” 

“Merry Christmas!” He shouts. 

“That’s a good one,” Harry says. And then, “Does anyone else know any Christmas jokes?” 

Turns out, they do. A lot of them, many of which are nonsense. 

His favorite he shares with Louis after the kids have left. “What does Mrs. Claus say to Santa when clouds roll in?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. Isn’t it _always_ cloudy in the North Pole?” 

“They’re on vacation in Florida for this joke.” 

“They go on vacation? Really?” 

“Everyone needs vacation, Louis. Come on, what does she say?” 

“Tell me.” Louis folds his arms over his chest and lifts his chin. 

“It looks like rain, dear.” Harry laughs as soon as he’s said it, and smacks the top of his knee. That one had come from James’ son, of course.

“Very funny,” Louis tells him, eyes soft, shaking his head. “Now that,” he gestures to the stage where Harry had been with the kids. “That was a mess. What happened to Ashley?” 

“She asked me if she could bail. Too much on her plate.” 

Louis frowns and stares at him. 

Harry realizes he’s biting his lip when a sharp metallic taste hits his tongue. He shrugs. “What was I supposed to say?” 

“You were supposed to say, ‘No, sorry. You agreed to do this. It’s less than two weeks away from Christmas Eve _,_ _everyone_ is either busy with family or booked.’ That’s what I would have said to her,” Louis replies. 

Harry blows out a breath. “Her kids are sick. I’m her pastor- I have to have some compassion. I can’t force her to do it.” 

“Harry,” Louis reaches out and takes Harry’s shoulders in his hands. “There’s a difference between ‘having compassion’ and ‘being a doormat.’ You don’t have to say ‘yes’ to everything people ask of you.” 

Harry sighs and looks down at his feet. This is probably bad timing, but, “Speaking of saying, ‘yes’ to things...”

“No,” Louis replies, but his gaze is warm and trained on Harry’s. 

“You haven’t even heard the question!” 

“I already know that my answer is ‘no.’” Louis drops his hands to his sides, but he leans just a little bit closer to Harry. 

“You play the piano. I know you do because I saw it in your LinkedIn profile-” 

Before Harry can get any further in his ask, Louis cuts him off. “See, I told you the answer would be ‘no.’ No, I will not play piano for the show.” 

“Maybe that wasn’t the question. It would be really presumptuous of me to ask you step in and direct the pageant at the last minute and then ask you to _accompany_ it as well at the very, _very_ last minute.” 

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, blue eyes glinting. “Glad we’re on the same page.” 

Harry licks his lips. “But you’ve already invested so much into this. You don’t want it to flop. For the sake of the kids, you know?” 

Louis’ eyes narrow. “I’d heard pastors were experts at emotional manipulation, but this is next level.” 

“So you’ll do it?” Harry presses. 

“It’s not that simple. I’m not great at the piano. Not sure if I can play _and_ direct. I’m not Lucy and I haven’t been doing this for twenty-five years.” He runs a hand through his fringe. 

Harry’s insides collapse. “What am I going to _do_?” 

Louis shakes his head and pokes a finger into Harry’s chest. “I will _think_ about it, okay? And in the meantime, you think about who else you could ask.” 

Fair enough. 

~

“You sound distracted. What are you doing?” Harry’s mom had just been describing birds swimming in the blue ceramic bath outside her kitchen window. She’s in no position to be accusing him of being distracted. 

“Driving home, just like I am every Sunday afternoon when you call me.” Today, he’s almost there, car running smoothly, warm enough now that he’s beginning to sweat under his winter coat and the air feels thick and a little stuffy. 

“Oh, good. Your car’s still running, then? I worry about you driving that thing, especially in the cold.” He knows she does. She’s posted several links to articles about winter vehicle preparation on his Facebook wall.

“I’m fine, mom. The car is doing fine. It’s started every time I’ve turned it on.” Not right away, but she does not need to know that. “I can’t afford a new one quite yet. Maybe in the spring.” 

She hums. “Gemma told me she’s decided to visit you for Christmas. I can’t believe you’re both abandoning us. I really thought you’d try harder to come home.” 

“Mom,” Harry sighs, pulling into the parking lot outside his apartment complex. “I told you when I decided to go into church ministry that Christmases would be complicated. There’s really no way I could have left. Better to come out for my birthday in February.” 

“It’s just, I have all these presents for you.” 

Harry closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. His mom has a _thing_ for presents. “Mom, I told you I didn’t need anything this year, just money.” 

“That’s just not personal. Robin and I are happy to help you out when you need it, but that’s not the same as _Christmas_.” No, to his mom, Christmas is a mountain of gifts, sweaters and cologne and red stripey socks and calendars and candles, wrapped in shiny paper and tied up with ribbon. 

She is generous to a fault. A real, literal _fault_ , in Harry’s opinion. 

“You can send them on the plane with Gemma,” he suggests. “Or mail them out. We can do Christmas morning over Skype.” 

“I don’t think they’d _fit_ on the plane, honey. And I want to _be_ there when you open them. Ah, well. I’ll just have to hold on to them till next year. Or return them.” The lilt in her voice is teasing. 

Harry’s tempted to rise to her bait. But he’s not five anymore. “Okay, sure. You do that. Listen, mom, it was good catching up, but I’ve just arrived home and I’m ready for a nap.” 

“Oh, I had another question for you,” she presses. “Before you go.” 

Harry turns off his car and opens the door, the sudden burst of cold air smacking his face. “Yeah?” 

“Who’s the new boy? The handsome Broadway star? He’s cute. Are you bringing him with you in February?” 

“What?” Harry asks, even though he knows exactly ‘what.’ “I’ve told you. I’m not dating every person I post about on Facebook.” 

“Yeah, but maybe you want to try with this one. He seems charming. A real Disney Prince voice. I was surprised he’d didn’t pick up a crew of critter friends as he sang.” That’s her dream, Harry knows, to have a posse of magical, talking animals. Such a crew had always featured heavily in his bedtime stories. 

“Mom, he’s from the church, so that’s _not_ going to happen. Ever. Also, stop stalking me on Facebook.” 

“Could be worse,” she taunts. “I could comment on everything like your Aunt Jane.” 

And fuck if she isn’t right. That _would_ be worse. 

~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll get around to replies this afternoon. Much love!!

_Wednesday, December 14_

_4:22pm_

Louis’ fingers stumble through an ugly jumble of notes as he tries to read along with the words for the third verse of Silent Night. Playing and singing at the same time is much more difficult than it looks. 

He gives up singing and finishes the piano line with a pretty flourish. Applause sounds from the other side of the room. 

Harry stands at the bottom of the stairs, he’s wearing his winter jacket and a gleeful smile. “Sally told me you were down here. She didn’t say that you were down here _rehearsing_ because you’ve decided to agree to _play_ for us!” 

“Oh, calm down. I’m testing it out. Seeing if I still have it in me.” 

“You do,” Harry says, practically skipping toward him with excitement, the coat slipping off his shoulders and puddling on the floor halfway across the room. He slides onto the bench beside Louis, mashing their hips together, reminding Louis of his little sisters. They _love_ when Louis plays the piano for them. 

Harry reaches up to flip through the open hymnal. “Now this one,” he points to the title. “It’s my favorite.” 

“O Holy Night. More like O Holy Shit that looks too hard for me to sight-read.” Louis’ eyes scan the notes. It doesn’t look too difficult, but while he knows the tune, it’s not one he’s played before. 

“Fine. What about Joy to the World? That one’s in the pageant, anyway.” 

Louis frowns. He supposes he’ll have to learn it, so he doesn’t protest when Harry flips it open before them. 

“You play and I’ll sing,” Harry tells him. 

Louis glances over at Harry through his lashes. Harry’s gazing straight back, lower lip out, eyes wide. A perfect, teasing pout. 

“You’re in a great mood today,” Louis comments as he scans the notes. 

“All my problems have just been solved. My knight in shining armor showed up at exactly the right moment. I will have my happily ever after, after all.” 

“Knight in shining armor, eh?” Louis asks, beginning to play. Louis doesn’t like the sound of that. He’d been too slow in getting his act together and, in the meantime, Harry’d been swept off his feet by someone else. 

Is that someone else spending countless hours helping Harry out with something he would normally be paid for? Did he spend two hours Sunday afternoon searching out (children’s) Christmas jokes to text to him? 

Louis thinks not. And yet. 

Maybe that’s Louis’ problem. Chasing _too_ hard. 

He bangs out the happy tune, wondering how to disengage from Harry without hurting his feelings; pushing him off the bench won’t work, nor will smashing his fingers with the piano cover. 

“You! You’re my knight in shining armor” Harry jostles his shoulder, causing him to trip over a couple of notes. (Yes, definitely the shoulder jostle to blame for the mistake, not his surprise. And definitely not the little bubble of delight lifting his shoulders and lightening his touch on the keys.) “I’ve been losing sleep over this musician thing. I know that sounds ridiculous. But this is so important for people. I just really want the whole thing to be perfect.” 

Louis stops playing. “You just don’t want to lose your job.” 

Harry nods. “That too. I’ve heard of people fired for less, I swear.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “You won’t lose your job at Christmas over a poorly executed pageant. For fuck’s sake, the church’s board is not run by Satan.” 

Harry’s face remains still as stone and Louis sighs. “Anyway, you’re right. I’m here. We’re figuring it out.” 

‘Figuring it out’ is one way to put it. They spend the next twenty minutes stumbling through the four songs meant to be in the pageant. Louis definitely plays better when he isn’t signing, but his fingers fumble over notes at every tiny distraction: the rough depth of Harry’s voice as he holds a long note, the smell of Harry’s cologne when he reaches up to flip the page, the tiny upward twist of Harry’s lips as he watches Louis read-through a lengthy musical bridge. 

Louis welcomes the buzz of his phone a half an hour into their little jam session, as it allows him to stand, stretch out his legs, wiggle his fingers and clear his mind of Harry for at least a moment. 

“Liam, hi.” 

“Hello, stranger! I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.” 

“You haven’t seen me in weeks.” 

“You’re looking a little scruffy on Snapchat, I will say.” 

“I don’t have Snapchat.” Harry’s flipping through his own phone, or rather, he’s pretending to flip through his own phone. Louis can tell that his eyes and ears are zoomed in on Louis. 

Harry has a Snapchat. He’d sent Louis a message to add him. Except Louis had deleted the app off his phone within days of Phoebe downloading it and creating an account for him. She thought he would like the filters. (He hadn’t. Every time he’d seen someone in dog ears or wearing an animated flower crown, all he could think was, _why?_ ) 

“Daisy had you in hers last weekend,” Liam says. “We’re friends.” 

“You’re friends with my sixteen year old sister?” Like, Louis _knows_ Liam’s gay and _probably_ nearly engaged to Zayn by now, but still. Creepy is creepy. 

“On _Snapchat_ , yeah. Why not? It’s my only means of tracking you, my best friend in the whole world.” 

Louis sighs. “What’s up?” 

“Are you coming out to the bar Friday? Zayn has the night off and he said he’s buying.” In the background of the call, Louis hears, “ _Fuck off, Liam. I did not say that. You know I’m broke_.” 

Louis glances back over at Harry. He’s laying on his back on the piano bench, hands folded over his belly, eyes closed. The way his legs fold over the edge of it can’t be comfortable. 

“What time?” 

“As soon as school’s out, I’m there.” 

That’s when it hits Louis. Liam. Liam is Harry’s knight in shining armor. Liam teaches choir at the middle and elementary school. He’s fucking _perfect_ for the pageant. 

“Liam. I need a favor.” 

“Is that a ‘yes’ to Friday or a ‘no’?” 

“Yes. Yeah. Definitely. You can tell Zayn that I’ll buy.” In the background, Louis hears, “ _I’ll believe that when fucking hell freezes over. You said that last time and then, after you peaced out, Liam found that you’d put all your drinks on the tab he started while waiting for your tardy ass to show up.”_

“Do you have me on speaker phone, Liam? What are you two doing right now? Do I even-“ 

“What was the favor, Louis?” Liam cuts in. 

“So I’m helping out at my mom’s church with the Christmas pageant and we need someone to accompany the kids on some Christmas carols. What do you say?” 

“Doesn’t your friend or mentor or whatever usually do that? What was her name? Lucy, right?” 

The memory of Lucy, looking up at Louis over the top of the grand piano in the Sanctuary and cueing him for his very first solo with a nod washes over Louis like a cold, salty ocean wave, smacking the breath right out of him. 

While he tries to recover, Liam says, “Did something happen to her?” 

“She passed away,” Louis says, after a moment. 

Something in his voice must give him away because Harry sits up and shoots him a worried look. 

“I’m fine,” he tells Harry. 

The phone clicks- Liam taking him off speaker, probably- and Liam says,“I know you’re fine, Jesus, Louis. Obviously, you’re not gonna be crying yourself to sleep because some old lady died. That’s what old people do, you know?” 

“I wasn’t talking to you. I was-“ 

“Who are _you_ with?” 

“I’m at the church, with the pastor. We’re working on the pageant.” 

“Oh my god, your mom told me all about that guy. Said he was a dreamboat. I think she might have even been trying to set us up.” 

“Liam,” Louis warns. He’s not really in the mood for stories about his mother’s matchmaking ways. He’s still back with Lucy. 

And Harry’s still watching him closely. 

“You should bring him! The pastor, I mean.” Liam throws the idea out casually, but it’s direct enough to rope Louis and drag him back to the present. 

“What? You’re not- I thought you and Zayn were a thing?” 

“No, I mean. You. Or. Like. The guy probably could use some friends? He’s new in town, right?” 

Louis remembers their conversation from the previous weekend, remembers Harry admitting that he couldn’t really let loose with the people from the congregation, that his exciting evening plans included solo drinking and Netflix-watching. 

 

“I’ll ask him.” 

“I bet he’ll buy us a round. He seems honest.” 

“I’m not bringing him out to pay for your drinks, you asshole,” Louis hisses. “Now, what about the pageant?” 

“Text me the dates of the rehearsals I’d need to be at and the big show and I’ll see if I’m free.” 

“Zayn’s already helping with the set,” Louis adds. He’d saved his trump card for last.

“He is? Listen, if I’m free, I’ll do it. See you and the Rev Friday at the usual spot.” 

“I haven’t asked him yet,” Louis reminds. Harry’s walking toward Louis now, one hand in his hair, eyes wide, curious. 

“He’s gay, right? _Convince_ him, if you know what I mean.” He can picture Liam’s wiggling brows and goofy grin. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of God. Goodbye, Liam.” 

“A man of God?” Harry asks, standing directly in front of him. His lips are pink, and so are his cheeks, and his hair floats around his face, the locks at his temples, curling tightly, thick with the day’s sweat. Louis can’t say he’s not tempted to try a little of Liam-style convincing. 

Instead, he says, “You should come out to the bar with me and my friends on Friday.” 

Harry tilts his head, “I should, should I? To buy them drinks? I don’t know what you think we associate pastors make, but I guaran-damn-tee you it’s less that even a first-year teacher.” 

Louis huffs. “I’ll buy _your_ drinks. I just think you should meet my friends. I think you’d like them.” Even as he says, he knows it’s true. Harry’d fit in well. They might even like Harry better than they like Louis. (Who wouldn’t, really?)

“I’m a pretty busy guy,” Harry tells him. 

“That Netflix really has you whipped, eh? Regular old ball and chain.” 

“You’re rude,” Harry says and marches back to the piano. “One more time with Joy to the World, for me?” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: alcoholism mention, religiously-based homophobia

Friday, December 16

_7:30pm_

Harry runs his fingers through his fringe. With one hand he brushes it out of his eyes, while using his other hand to pull down the visor mirror. His hair getting long again, long enough to curl at his temples and on the top of his ears. He shakes his head. Even in the tiny glass, he can see that it’s a mess. 

He wishes it were long enough to tuck up and into a bun. He settles for an artful tussle, but one belligerent spot on the left side remains flat. 

Does one need perfection for a dive bar? Probably not. 

He’s parked a block away, in a lot Louis suggested because he won’t be ticketed if he decides to Uber home and leave his car overnight. He doesn’t intend to do this- how would he make it to work the following morning for the pageant’s dress rehearsal? But he’s never been one to forego precaution. Besides, he might need to prove his ‘coolness’ to Louis’ friends. A shot or two might be necessary- that’s what Niall taught him- sometimes a pastor needs to drink to prove he’s a man of the people. 

Jesus never shied away from alcohol, or so says scripture. 

He steps into the bar expecting to be bathed in hot air, but the entryway is nearly as cold as the air outside. He pulls his black wool pea coat tighter to his body. The worst part of moving northeast has been the weather. Growing up, his family wasn’t so sacrilegious as to spend Christmas at the beach- too many presents to open, really- but Thanksgiving and New Year were fair game. 

He scans the crowd. He doesn’t see Louis anywhere, but he does see Zayn and another guy leaning on the bar, chatting with the bartender. Taking a deep breath, he sidles up to them. 

“Zayn,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

Zayn turns toward him. His eyes travel up and down Harry’s body. Harry’s reminded of the looks Sue The Kitchen Tzar gives him every Sunday before reaching out to tuck in a tag or smooth a wrinkle. (In his third week working at the church, she’d come to his office with an iron and ironing board she’d found for him at Goodwill.) 

“That outfit doesn’t seem very Christian.” Zayn says finally. 

Harry glances down his front. The thin white t-shirt seemed like a conservative pick for a night out, but even in the dim light of the dive, Harry can see the outline of the butterfly on his stomach through the fabric. 

He shrugs. “The early Christians probably participated in all aspects of Hellenistic life, including the practice of communal bathing.” 

The man with Zayn, probably the pianist, frowns, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. He sticks out a hand. “I’m not sure what that means, but I’m Liam.” 

Harry gives him a solid shake. “Harry.” 

“Actually, I have some questions for you, Harry.” Behind him, the bartender sets two tall glasses of beer onto the gleaming cherry wood of the bar. “But I’ll let you get something to drink first. That is, _if_ you drink. Do you drink? Rude of us to meet up a bar if you don’t. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, I drink,” Harry assures him. “I drink all the time.” 

He realizes how that must sound and backs the statement up. “I mean, not all the time. I’m not an alcoholic. Not yet, anyway.” He laughs. 

The two men stare at him. Well, fuck. Alcohol addiction is probably not proper joke material, especially not when one is trying to make new friends. 

“I’ll just-“ He gestures to the bar. 

Louis arrives in the nick of time, his voice ripping from the entrance all the way across the bar and filling the silence as the three of them wait for Harry’s drink. “Hello, friends!” 

“Louis,” Harry beams, relief flooding him. Louis’ appearance and returning smile, Harry’s surprised to note, relaxes him more than the drink he’s now bringing to his lips. 

Except then Louis lifts said drink from Harry’s hand and takes the first long gulp of it. He makes a face and hands it back. “Sorry,” he says. “We had a read through of the winter musical and I need to forget my regrettable casting choices immediately.” 

As he waves down the bartender, he adds, “Just because someone has an amazing voice and charismatic stage presence that does not mean they make a good lead. The girl won’t sit still or shut up. I should have gone with the sweet natured seventh grader instead. I still might.” 

Zayn is whispering in Liam’s ear and Harry thinks they are both looking at _him,_ not Louis, but because his own gaze seems to be magnetically attached to Louis’ face, he’s not entirely certain. 

Louis’ ranting about the musical carries them all the way to a booth in the back. The padding on the bench seats is half-ripped and the table wobbles a little worryingly when they set their drinks down it. 

“They reserve this spot for us,” Louis explains. 

Harry doesn’t see a reserved sign. 

“No, they don’t. We’re the only ones who don’t mind the ass ache these fucking seats give you,” Zayn mutters. “Or you two don’t seem to mind anyway.” 

“I think it’s Liam that’s making your ass ache,” Louis returns. That sounds like a joke, but Louis’ look is weighty and serious. Zayn gazes straight back at him. Suddenly, Harry feels as though he’s walked in on a private conversation- an intervention, perhaps. He should never have agreed to come out with Louis’ friends. 

Liam interrupts the staring contest. “I think that’s a rude thing to say with a pastor here. We don’t want him to be offended.” 

Louis barks out a sharp woof a laugh that sputters for a few long moments before going out. “Harry, here, is not some sort of innocent.” 

Twin brown gazes pivot back to Harry’s face. 

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it. 

He _isn’t_ an innocent, that’s for damn sure. But he also isn’t one to go around sharing his sexual preferences and exploits with strangers either. He cares about staying employed far too much to engage in that kind of bullshitting. 

Louis raises a brow at him and so he settles on saying, “You guys are welcome to say whatever you like around me. I’m not going to judge you or anything and I’m definitely not going to be scandalized by your PG-13 innuendoes.” 

“PG-13?” Liam stutters at the same time as Louis throws an arm around Harry’s shoulder and says, “That’s why I brought him along. Someone else who will understand the depth of Liam’s lameness.” 

Zayn shakes his head as if to say, _then what am I?_

Louis asks, as if in reply, “So how’s the sex?” 

And suddenly the glass wall between him and these long time friends reappears and he’s on the outside looking in and trying to figure out what exactly is going on. 

The best he can do is this: Liam and Zayn must not have been together long, though they are clearly together now. Louis is not happy about his status as third wheel. Which, Harry realizes, is probably why he’d invited Harry along in the first place. 

“Louis, come on,” Liam says, eyes on Harry again. 

Zayn shrugs. “I’ve had more exciting sex, but never anything quite like his foreplay or cuddling afterward.” 

Liam angles his body so that he can look Zayn straight in the face, “Really? You never said.” 

Harry thinks they’re sweet. Someday, he hopes he’ll have an equally embarrassing lover, though he doesn’t think he could compromise for anything less than exciting sex. 

“I was not trying to prompt a smoochfest.” Louis drums his fingers against his now mostly empty glass. 

“Smoochfest?” Harry says. “I thought you said Liam was the lame one.” It’s not a fair comment. Harry has definitely used the word himself once or twice. Or he definitely would, if the opportunity arose. But he can’t resist. 

Also, he wants Louis’ blue irises focused back on himself. 

Because he doesn’t like being left out. Not, like, for any other, more inappropriate reason. 

It works. Louis twists toward Harry and smacks his lips several times over with exaggerated kissing noises. He seems different with his friends than he’s been with Harry. Looser, sillier. Harry likes it.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I think you’re jealous of them. Zayn and Liam, I mean.” 

Louis’ eyes narrow. “I thought you said you weren’t here to judge.” 

“It’s an observation. Judgement belongs to Lord.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and murmurs, “You’re full of shit,” at the same time as Liam butts back into the conversation saying, “Judgement. That reminds me about the things I wanted to ask you, Pastor Harry.” 

Harry turns toward Liam, his gut turning leaden. He’s not really in the mood for a debate about judgement and hell. He wants to forget that he’s a pastor for a few hours, especially with Louis’ close enough to touch, flushed and laughing. 

He pastes on a smile. “Okay, but it’s just Harry, here.” 

“Yeah, okay. So. Harry. You clearly don’t have a problem with the whole sodomy being an abomination thing. Or, at least, you really don’t seem like you do. But I’m not sure how you get there. I attended this church in college, right? Big church, awesome music- that’s what got me hooked. But the pastor there showed me where the Bible says very, _very_ clearly, that it’s a sin. Obviously, you went to school to understand this and I didn’t but, like, how do you get past that?” 

“Jesus, Liam. We’re out for Friday drinks. You really want to get into this _now_?” Louis shifts closer in the booth to Harry as he asks the question, perhaps sensing Harry’s discomfort. 

“I’ve asked _you_ before, cause I know that you said your church isn’t against it and all you said back to me was that you don’t really believe in God either way, so you never really looked carefully into it. Which, um, not helpful.” Liam tilts his head toward Harry. “You don’t mind talking about this, right? Like, it’s kinda your thing?” 

It’s not _exactly_ Harry’s thing. 

Still, his mind dives back, deep into the outline he’d created for a pastoral care paper in his first year of Divinity School. So many ways to approach the question- the numerous other things that the Bible calls an abomination (like eating shellfish and cheeseburgers), the fact that the Bible does not include a ban on ‘homosexuality’ as modern Americans understand the term, and the many examples of same-sex couples and sexually marginalized individuals that the biblical text actually lifts up and celebrates. 

‘The clobber passages,’ as the explicit bans on sodomy are often referred to, had never been problem for Harry. He’d understood that God loved him, was on the side of the marginalized _like him_ even, no matter what some parts of the church said. But his pastoral care professor had warned him that others might not have reached the same understanding. So he’d done his research and written his paper. 

It’s proven useful often enough that he’s grateful for the professor’s prodding no matter how disappointed he still is that he’d had to sacrifice a research paper about preaching at funerals and write this one instead.

“Liam,” Louis leans across the table. “Let the man live. This is his night off. I wouldn’t ask you about how to hook up an IV on your night off and you wouldn’t grill me on classroom management techniques. It’s not polite.” 

Liam frowns. After a moment, he says, “But why would you care how to hook up an IV?” 

“It’s fine. I don’t mind,” Harry says. “There are a lot of ways to deal with the text, but the simplest answer is that scripture talks about God’s unconditional and unrelenting love far more than it talks about sodomy. God wants us to share that love with one another and, as long as no one gets hurt, I don’t think She cares _how_ we share it.” 

“She?” Liam asks. “Are you saying God is a _her_?” 

Louis retches and pokes Harry in the shoulder. “I did not invite you out for a religious lecture. I invited you out to party. Let’s go get another round.” 

Liam doesn’t bring Christianity up again. In fact, when they return to the table, Zayn and Liam admit to having spent the last ten minutes stalking Harry on Facebook and have discovered a mutual acquaintance: Niall Horan. 

Apparently, Liam’s run into him in the music scene in Pittsburgh. “I had no idea he was a pastor,” Liam tells the table. “He hit on, like, every woman that came up to talk to him after the show.” 

“Yep,” Harry agrees, cheer flowing through his veins, hot like the shot of whiskey Louis’d insisted they do at the bar. “That’s Niall. I think he slept with at least five or six of our classmates. Amy really thought he might come around to marrying her. Haha. Yeah, right.” 

“How many classmates did _you_ sleep with?” Louis asks. He’s sitting cross-legged in the booth, one of his knees resting across the top of Harry’s thigh. 

“None, unfortunately. The only other out gay guy was super-conservative. No sex till marriage kind of thing. Would not have worked out between us.” 

“So you believe in sex before marriage?” Louis presses. 

“Of course I believe in it; I’m not an idiot. It happens all the time.” Harry may be tipsy, but he’s alert enough to avoid a trap when he sees one. He cannot forget that Louis and his family attend the church and could conspire to force him out of a job. 

Louis’ eyes narrow and his pointer finger digs into Harry’s shoulder. The spot is already a little sore from previous pokes, but Harry manages to hold back his wince. 

“I’m on call tomorrow,” Liam announces out of the blue. He’s looking at his phone. Maybe not so out of the blue. 

“I thought you were coming to the rehearsal!” Louis reaches across the table to smack the phone out of his hands. “You promised. 

“Ouch. You’re a dick. And I am planning to be there. I just might be called away.” Liam hoists himself up and out of the booth, reaching behind himself to rub his bottom. Harry’s aching ass can relate. 

Zayn follows Liam up, his hands on Liam’s shoulders. A pang of jealousy smacks Harry in the chest and he has to close his eyes for a moment and _breathe._

“Don’t stay up too late, kids,” Louis chimes after them. 

Zayn, still holding onto Liam with one hand, turns round to flick him off. 

“Well, we’re better off without those two lovebirds, I say.” Louis reaches across the table and grabs Liam’s half full beer glass, the brown liquid slopping around inside. He chugs down the remainder of it in one impressive go and wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Harry says, “I liked them. Thank you for inviting me. I know I can be a bit of a drag. Or, like, having a pastor around can be.” 

“ _You_ were fine. Liam was the problem. I forgot that those fucking Jesus Freaks on campus had gotten to him way back then. He almost went back into the closet permanently. Like, what the hell.” 

Harry frowns. “That’s really fucked up.” 

“Yeah,” Louis says. “It is.” Then, he shakes his head. “No more Jesus talk. We’re going to down a pitcher of water and then you’re coming home with me to see the best Christmas movie ever.” 

“I am?” Harry finishes the last of his beer and doesn’t meet Louis’ eyes. He can picture it. The two of them curled even closer than they are now- Louis practically in Harry’s lap, a few more drinks in front of them, the same blanket wrapping them together, and no one else around. 

He can’t imagine the movie would take front and center. 

“You definitely are,” Louis says, standing and grabbing Harry’s hand. He tugs at Harry until Harry’s standing, too, grasping for his coat. Together, they make their way to the bar. 

They share the pitcher in relative silence- though the long looks they send each other echo back and forth between them like shouts rattling up and down a canyon. Harry thinks Louis’ as interested in watching the movie as Harry is. Which is to say, he is not that interested at all. 

As they approach the parking lot, Harry reaches into his pocket for his phone. He has no idea what time it is. But the first thing he sees on his screen is a text. He reads it once and then again. His heart sinks to his socks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tomorrow's chapter might go up 5-10 hours later than usual- we'll see.
> 
> ETA: If you're interested in reading something similar to Harry's paper confronting conservative religious ideas about 'homosexuality,' this is a great resource <http://mccchurch.org/files/2016/08/BibleandHomosexuality.pdf>


	13. Chapter 13

_Saturday, December 17_

_8:57am_

Louis’ car is only the second to pull into the parking lot of St. Andrew’s the next morning. The other car, an SUV, is literally overflowing onto the blacktop with children.

They’re a colorful blur, playful as puppies, falling all over each other, stuffing meager handfuls of the dusting of new fallen snow in each other’s faces and down each other’s coats. Louis’ mom waves at him from the front seat. Doris lets out a scream of laughter that trickles through the layers of glass and steel and cold air that separate them from Louis. He takes a gulp of coffee and checks his phone.

_Running ten minutes late. Can you let the kids inside? Building code is 1728. A few moms are supposed to be there to help today, including yours._

Louis sighs. He’s not feeling generous toward Harry this morning, not after Harry switched courses midstream. One moment, he’d been laughing, gaze heavy on Louis’ lips, brushing his elbow playfully against Louis’ as they’d made their way to the parking lot and the next moment he’d been frowning, with a bitterness Louis didn’t recognize and certainly didn’t deserve, and telling Louis, _goodbye, have a good night._

So, he’s tempted to text back a simple, _no_. But he cares about the pageant- today is the _dress rehearsal_ \- and he doesn’t _know_ what had happened to change Harry’s mood last night. Maybe Harry has a perfectly good explanation that he plans to share with Louis once he’s feeling more at ease.

 _Sure,_ Louis shoots back.

~

The first real snowfall of the year has drawn a wildness out of the kids that Louis _loves_ , almost every one of them skittering into the sanctuary, a bundle of energy and excitement. Untamed, they’re liable to knock down the big Christmas tree by the Communion table or start launching hymnals at each other.

Luckily, Louis’ ready to harness their potential. He puts the older kids on bringing the set pieces upstairs and arranging them, while he works with a couple of parents on dressing the younger ones.

When Harry finally arrives, hair wet and a banana hanging out of the pocket of his pea coat, (closer to twenty minutes late than ten) everyone is in place and ready to begin.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry tells him, running a hand through tangled curls.

“It’s okay,” Louis’ mom replies with a wink. She’s appeared out of thin air, an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “You’re allowed a night out every once in awhile. We all know you’re not Jesus.”

Harry frowns. “It wasn’t-“ he stops and shakes his head. “I’m not Jesus, you’re right. But we’ve got a Mary and Joseph, here somewhere, don’t we?”

On cue, both kids appear in front of him in costume. Joseph cradles a cabbage patch doll.

Louis watches Harry give them a once over and a smile, before leaning in to stroke the plastic cheek and coo, “Well, aren’t you a cutie?”

Louis checks his phone. He’d told Liam they wouldn’t need him for the first hour, but he thumbs out a reminder text anyway, partly to make sure the paramedic hasn’t been called into work.

Just as Louis touches ‘send,’ Harry’s voice appears close to his ear. “You want to do a full run through today, right?”

Harry’s words rasp against Louis, the rough edge of unfinished wood running down the tender inside of his arm, and Louis wonders if his mom isn’t onto something. Maybe Harry _had_ run off to a different guy. A _real_ date. Maybe he has a secret boyfriend. Louis tries to imagine him cozying up to someone else, maybe a muscular blonde. It doesn’t really matter either way, seeing as Harry’s made himself quite clear. He’s not interested in dating Louis, secret boyfriend or no.

“Yes,” Louis tells him, stepping back a bit. “That’s what a dress rehearsal is. Have you never done anything theater related before?”

Harry shakes his head. “Nope, not since high school.”

Really, Louis thinks, the man would be so fucked if he didn’t have Louis to help him with this. So fucked. At least Louis can count on getting onto Santa’s good list this year.

~

_10:05 am_

They’re about ten minutes away from finishing their initial run through when Liam arrives, puffy coat rustling as he rushes toward Harry who is sitting in the front pew, elbows on knees, chin in hand, face pouty. Whatever personal tragedy that caused his change in mood last night hasn’t dissipated.

That knowledge boosts Louis’ mood a touch, though he feels guilty for it. It’s just, he’s very glad to know that it probably wasn’t another, better boy who called Harry away from Louis’ ‘movie night’ proposal.

“Hi, Harry,” Liam says, squatting beside him. His voice is low enough that most of the kids aren’t distracted, but Louis, who's on the other side of Harry, is. “Wanted to apologize for asking you all those Bible questions last night. Zayn really let me have it for being so rude. So sorry. But I also wanted to say thank you for answering and if you’re ever up for talking more about it, I’d like to. I kind of alluded to it last night, but I was _really_ into Jesus for a while there and I really felt- never mind, now’s not the time either, I know. But what you said was helpful. So. Yeah.”

Louis feels his face heat up. He never quite understood what Liam went through- the whole experience of being ‘born again’ seemed more creepy and cultish to Louis than ‘transformative’- but he knew that it fucked Liam up. Out of the blue, Liam’d shown up on the stoop of Louis’ New York apartment in tears. Louis had never seen him cry before. In leaving that church, he’d lost most of his others friends. He’d replaced time his spent there with an unhealthy amount of time at the gym. So Louis feels a little trickle of happy heat deep down to know that Harry might be able to help Liam heal what Louis suspects is still a painful wound.

Harry turns to Liam. His eyes are wide and maybe even a little wet. He bites his lip and then reaches out to squeeze Liam’s shoulder. “Thanks, Liam. We can definitely talk more. I’d like that. I mean, not right now, but some time.”

Louis calls the rehearsal to a stop and one of the shepherds’ scripts soars across the room. Louis glares at the boy who threw it. The boy cackles and then chases after it.

Harry continues, “And I have to say that I’m really glad you came out today, but I’m not sure if we’re going to get to the music after all. The run through is lasting far longer than I expected.” He lowers his voice. “Actually, I’m not sure if we’re really going to have a show, at all.” He punctuates the statement with a nervous glance at Louis.

Liam’s brows draw together as he follows Harry’s gaze to the kids now cutting loose, laughing and talking and, in Doris’ case, running around the sanctuary.

“Oh, cut the hysterics. This is what dress rehearsals are for- realizing all the problems. We’ve got one more run through before Christmas Eve with the families as a test audience. That’s usually when things start to come together, I promise.” Harry fought him a bit about putting that one on the calendar. The family dry run was something he’d learned in school, not a usual Lucy thing, which meant that it wasn’t already scheduled when Louis signed on. They wouldn’t be able to use the sanctuary- the Spanish-language congregation had booked it months in advance. Louis still thinks the extra work will be worth it.

“Louis, I don’t think-“ Harry begins, brow wrinkling, but Louis cuts him off.

“Who knows more about this stuff, me or you?” To Liam, he says, “We’ve got about ten more minutes of script to run, then we’ll be ready for the singing. Harry, Liam needs a script to follow along. Can you find him one?”

“Did you just boss the _pastor_ around?” Liam asks, voice cracking in disbelief.

“He likes it.” It takes a great deal of self-discipline to walk away without turning back to see Harry’s reaction.

As he reaches the stage, a new rush of irritation hits him. He cannot seem to help flirting.

~

_12:10pm_

Louis’ watching Harry squat down to give one of the angels a side-hug, when Liam coughs. Louis turns to see him pull one arm through his coat and then the other.

“You really like him, huh? Gonna go for it?”

Louis’ eyes narrow and he returns his gaze to Harry. He should deny it. Instead, he says, “Please don’t tell my mom. I’ll never hear the end of it. She’s been trying to set us up for months.”

Liam laughs. “You should not have told me that.”

“I am dead serious about this Liam. I know your mom’s phone number. I’ll text her a photo of you and Zayn.”

“Whatever. She’s already invited him over for Christmas dinner,” Liam murmurs.

Louis whirls around on him. “It’s official! Oh my God! How come your mom knew before me, your first and best friend in the whole world.”

“We’re not, like- anyway. About you and Harry- have you-“ But before he can finish the question about Harry, the little angel is gone and Harry’s standing and turning toward them.

Louis elbows Liam hard in the ribs. “Not a fucking word. It’s a very, um, delicate situation.”

Harry’s running his hands through his hair, which still hasn’t fully dried. “That went terribly,” he says.

“You whine more than our Mary,” Louis tells him.

(It’s not true. Samantha’s moping has risen to incredible heights. Today, she’d insisted that she should have been narrator at least sixteen times, which wasn’t helping Eva’s nerves one bit. Louis’d been _this_ close to threatening to call her mom. Though, he knows her mom has the same ugly bone to pick with him.)

“So,” Liam says, voice loud and falsely cheery enough to ring Louis’ internal warning gong. “Harry! What are you doing this afternoon?”

Harry’s brows go up. “Well,” he hedges.

“Don’t be nosy, Liam,” Louis says, though now that the question is out in the open, he’s desperate to know the answer to it.

“I _had_ been planning to decorate my place for Christmas.” The words limp out of his mouth, sad and, perhaps, a little grumpy. “But that’s been called off.”

“Good news,” Louis says. “I heard that, in fact, Christmas _is_ still happening after all.”

Harry’s face hints at a smile.

“I thought you would like all the seasonal stuff. Isn’t it, like, your job to enjoy Christmas?” Liam asks the question and Louis wants to kick him. Not polite.

Harry shrugs. “I do. I _love_ Christmas. I am Christmas’ _slave_ , usually. I just. My sister texted last night. She was planning to come out here for a few days, since I can’t come home, but she decided at the last minute that she really wants to spend the holiday with our parents. So it looks like I’m going to be alone, after all. I bought all this stuff to hang around my apartment, but not much point decorating for just me.”

“What? Last _night_ she canceled? In a _text_ message?” Louis can’t keep the outrage out of his voice. That’s too last minute, even for his procrastinating ass.

“She left me a voicemail, too, saying she’s been going through a lot. She’s in a messy spot with her boyfriend and our step-dad is having some complications recovering from knee surgery, _which of course no one told me about_. And so she just sort of wants to take it easy, and make sure our parent’s are alright. Like, _god_. The way she left it made me out to be the bad son and brother for not coming home. I’d love to come home if that were a viable option. But I’m a pastor!”

Liam is shaking his head, arms across his chest. “That is terrible,” he says, without even a hint of sympathy in his voice. Louis can tell he’s holding back a smile. What is _his problem_? “You need someone to help you get in the mood, cheer you up.”

Harry bites his lip and then asks, “Are you volunteering?”

“No, not me. I have to work this afternoon. Definitely getting called in. With the, um, snow and stuff. Louis, though, I know he doesn’t have any plans.” Liam turns to Louis and wiggles his eyebrows. “Speaking of my work. Gotta go. See you guys on Wednesday for the final rehearsal.”

Harry blinks at his retreating back.

Louis’ hands clench into fists.

“He’s such a nice guy,” Harry murmurs, which rankles Louis a little because, know who else is a nice guy? _Louis_.

Harry meets Louis’ eyes and gives him a soft smile. “You don’t have to help me. I probably won’t end up doing much. Maybe hang a strand of lights and switch in my Christmas mugs.”

“You have Christmas mugs?” Louis asks.

Harry nods. “One of them even sings Silent Night.”

“I can help, if you want,” Louis says.

“I’m still in a funk from the news and, you know, Saturday nights are all about prepping for my big Sunday. So I’ll be no fun.” He’s running his fingers through his hair again.

“Come on, you don’t have to preach, do you?”

Harry fiddles with a button on his jacket, closes his eyes, and then shakes his head.

“You need my help.” Louis tells him. “With the decorating and with that bottle of wine I know you’re planning to use to drown your sorrows. Be honest. You’re a light weight.”

Harry tilts his head. “I’m not. I could drink you under the table.”

Louis is such a sucker for the chase. To put himself in the position of being turned down by Harry two nights in a row- it’s so, so stupid. But, in that moment, he decides, whatever Harry’s answer tonight, he’s not going to give up. They’ve got chemistry. They’ll be good together- Louis is sure of it.

And so, he presses, “Well?”

Harry buttons the top button on his coat and smiles, shyly, before answering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry so late. tomorrow's update might be later in the day, too, but i think we'll be back on track soon. ;)


	14. Chapter 14

 

_Saturday, December 17_

_12:58pm_

 

Louis pushes past Harry into the apartment. “You said something about Christmas mugs?”

Harry drops his keys into the little ceramic bowl by the door. “Yeah.”

Louis nods. “Make us tea in them. Or hot coco would be better. Do you have hot coco?”

“No, but I do have egg nog. And rum.”

Louis twirls around and shakes his head, eyes wide. “I guess because of your limited stores, we’ll have to resort to day-drinking.”

“No other option, really,” Harry agrees.

Harry uses step stool to dig his four Christmas mugs out from where he’s hidden them above the fridge. As he’s setting them on the counter, Louis calls out, “Where have you stashed the rest of your Christmas decorations? Thought you said you just bought them. I can’t find them anywhere.”

Harry might have hid them in fit of depressive outrage last night.

“They’re, um, under my bed. Maybe.”

He opens up the fridge, lays a hand on the egg nog container and freezers. Also, _other things_ are under his bed.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he says, slamming the fridge shut and running into his bedroom.

Louis’ ass sticks out from underneath his bed. It wiggles a little.

“Hey, um.” Harry tries to sound casual. “Why don’t I try to get them out?”

Louis begins to buck and writhe, the rest of his body slowly reappearing. His head pops out at last, face bright pink. Between heaving breaths, he says, “I’m not even going to ask how you got those all the way back there.”

“Better not to,” Harry agrees. “It wasn’t my best moment.”

(With tears streaming down his cheeks, Harry just might have shoved them out of reach, moaning, _fuck Christmas, I wish Jesus never had been born.)_

Louis draws out one, then two, then the third Target bag of Christmas things. (Louis does not purposefully nor accidentally pull out _other things_ , thank god.)

Together they haul all of the decorations back to Harry’s living room and set them on his coffee table.

“Lights, tree, ball ornaments, more lights, reindeer antlers...Is this a teddy bear Mary and Joseph and Jesus? What the- you know what? Nevermind. Candy canes, butter cookies, caramel corn, chocolate dipped pretzels, wine- _good wine,_ gingerbread men, chocolate covered potato chips. Were you planning to decorate this place with _food_?”

Harry shrugs. “I was hungry. At Target. I should have bought popcorn beforehand- always saves me money in the long run.”

Louis shakes his head. “Go put on some Christmas music.”

Now that, Harry can do.

~

_4:35pm_

The green and red bowls of caramel popcorn and chocolate covered pretzels and little gingerbread men decorating Harry’s coffee table cheer him up more than anything else. Well, other than Louis’ company and conversation.

Lights glisten and flash in his few windows and the rainbow throw he usually keeps on the couch has been replace by the red and white reindeer one his mom sent him in the mail. Louis spent most of his energy on putting together a white-lighted fake tree in Harry’s entryway.

After careful, egg nog-and-rum influenced inspection, he and Louis decided that, even as small as it was, the ten red and silver ball ornaments Harry bought were not enough to decorate the tree adequately. They folded a few Christmas card envelopes into origami cranes and added a few candy canes.

But just as they as they began a second inspection, Harry’s spotify playlist hit ‘I’ll be home for Christmas,’ bathing the apartment in melancholy. Harry was suddenly tempted to take the whole thing down, but he didn’t want to insult Louis by undoing all his work.

Now, though, they’ve put out the treats Harry’d been hoping to share with his sister, including the bottle of sparkling red wine he’d searched out special for her. (Harry doesn’t remember liking it, but Louis’ delighted ‘ _good wine’_ upon finding it had convinced him to give it another try.) Louis barrels back into the room from the bathroom and throws himself onto Harry’s couch. Harry found the thing on Craigslist, charmed by the description of firm cushions and green and white plaid upholstery. ‘Firm’ is a generous descriptor, and Louis winces as his butt connects with the hard seat.

“Sorry,” Harry says, perching a foot on the coffee table. “I need something my older visitors can get in and out of.”

“Do you have a lot of older visitors?” Louis asks, squirming around to try and get comfortable.

“A few. From the church. And it’s softer on the left side, I think.”

Louis scoots into the left corner and nods. “Wow. That makes a difference.” He settles against the arm, leans back and sighs.

“So,” Harry says. “About this movie.”

Louis’ eyes flick open. “A Christmas Story.”

“Should we put it on?”

Louis looks at his phone and Harry’s stomach sinks. Louis will have received a text from his mom or, worse, his more fun friends, and all Harry’s treats and sparkling wine will have to be tossed in the trash. (Or eaten by him. Alone.

Probably while watching scrolling through other people’s happy Christmas pictures on Facebook.)

“Wow,” Louis says. “It’s only four-thirty. It’s so dark outside. It feels like eight or later. I hate this time of year.”

“So you have time to watch the movie?” Harry asks, unable to keep his voice from lifting hopefully.

Louis meets his eyes. “Harry. I’ve got _all_ night. Just wanted to check if we should order pizza first.”

Harry’s eyes widen, but then he nods. Playing it cool. “Oh. Great idea. What do you think?”

Louis reaches for a handful of popcorn. Through a bite of it, he says, “This will hold out for a while.”

Harry smiles and Louis, eyes on Harry, takes another handful of popcorn. After he’s through chewing it, he says, “Well?”

“Um,” Harry replies, a bit mesmerized by the slick pink of Louis’ lips.

“Are you going to start the movie, or what?” Louis prompts. He’s smiling like he might prefer the ‘or what’ and Harry’s heart skips a few beats. Suddenly, he remembers why it might have been a bad idea to invite Louis over in the first place.

However, no one had ever told him he couldn’t be _friends_ with congregants, as long as he maintained professional boundaries- didn’t overshare or take advantage for personal gain. He doesn’t think using Louis’ labor to decorate his apartment counts as the latter (but he should probably keep the whole thing quiet, anyway).

“My laptop!” Harry announces, dashing into his bedroom to grab the thing from where he’d dropped it beside his bed last night. He deposits it onto the coffee table, almost knocking over his wine glass in his haste to stand back up again - he’d forgotten the cord.

But when he looks back in his room, it’s not plugged into the outlet by his bed. He closes his eyes and prays that he hasn’t left it at the church, before walking slowly over to the long, low dresser, on top of which sits his shoulder bag. He peeks inside. There it is. His cord, thank God.

As he closes the door to his room, he realizes he has to pee and so he does, which means that by the time he returns to the living room, Louis might have been screwing around on his computer for as long as three or four minutes.

He gasps for a breath and tries to remember whether or not he’d closed out of the tabs he’d been browsing before bed last night - a bit of personal, _comfort_ shopping.

Louis grins at Harry, a wide, enthusiastic grin. Is it a weird grin? A forced grin? An ‘I just realized you like giant dildos and maybe also sex with leather props’ grin? Harry isn’t sure.

“You sure you’re ready to watch this?” Louis asks. He’s looking away now, fingers tapping at the keyboard.

So if he did see something, he’s not planning on confronting Harry about it, at least not right away. That has to be a good sign.

Harry cautiously positions himself beside Louis on the couch. He leaves roughly four inches of cushion between them. That seems like a safe amount of inches. But as soon as he’s settled, Louis drops the computer onto his lap and says, “Can’t you hook this up to your TV?”

Of course, he can. But first, he wants to check and make certain no incriminating evidence remains open on his desktop.

The only browser tab open is Netflix.

Harry lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he tells Louis. “Yeah, sure.”

When the opening credits finally start rolling and Harry’s sipping his grape-juice flavored wine (he still doesn’t like it, turns out), he realizes he hadn’t taken the same care in sitting the second time. He and Louis’ thighs are practically touching and he takes a slow, steadying breath before setting his wine back onto the table.

Louis stretches an arm out across the back of the couch. Into Harry’s ear, he whispers, “Hey, are you okay?”

Harry nods, but it’s a lie. He prays silently for self-control.

~

_6:18pm_

“Hey, Harry.” Louis’ voice in his ear, whispering. Louis’ hand is on his thigh, squeezing.

Louis’ hand is on his thigh, _squeezing_.

Harry shakes himself awake. “Oh God,” he growls. _Why the fuck does his voice sound so sexual_?

He’s curled up against Louis, his cheek plastered to Louis’ sweater. He rubs at the mark its left with his palm and shakes himself again.

“I can’t believe you fell asleep during this movie, _again_. It’s only the greatest movie of all time. Greatest Christmas movie, that is.”

Harry’s eye itches and he rubs at it. Louis’ arm lies heavy around him, warm like a the blankets on his bed he hates venturing outside of on cold winter mornings.

“It’s not better than Elf,” he protests, voice still far too hoarse.

“How would you know? You fell asleep.”

“That’s how I know,” Harry says, finally beginning to sound normal again. “Was I snoring?”

Louis turns toward him and their noses almost brush. His breath heats up Harry’s lips. He shakes his head. “No.”

Harry frowns and sniffs.

Louis, says, “Only a little. I didn’t mind. Not like I was trying to sleep.”

“Sorry.” Harry should move. His eyes are on Louis’ lips and Louis’ eyes are on his lips and he should _definitely_ move or else one of them is going to do something that Harry will regret and cry many tears over, probably from the couch of his sister’s southern California apartment where he will have to move when he loses his job.

Louis moves first, though, towards Harry, not away.

Just as their lips meet, Harry gasps, a little hitch of breath so soft that Louis might not even hear it. He shouldn’t be surprised and he definitely shouldn’t lean in, but it’s a been a long time and he loves a cozy, cuddly kiss. The soft press of Louis’ lips, the hint of wet warmth as they part, is perfectly Christmas, hot chocolate and a snapping (but well-contained) fire in the hearth.

One of Louis’ hands slips into his hair, a tug that sends a skittering rush of sensation through Harry’s body and straight to his cock. And that feeling is brighter, a little more dangerous. Still, Harry can’t bring himself to pull away.

Harry’s neck goes slack as Louis moves to press a line of kisses along his jaw. His stubble grates against Harry’s, delivering another almost unbearable rush of shivers.

Harry brings their mouths back together and Louis groans, a soft rough sound that echoes from the back of his throat into and through Harry. Louis’ nails graze Harry’s scalp and his teeth nip into Harry’s lower lip.

Suddenly, Harry cannot breath.

He should not be doing this. This is Very Bad. Forget Santa’s naughty list, he’s headed straight to hell.

He breaks the kiss and pulls away, stumbling up and off the couch.


	15. Chapter 15

_Saturday, December 17_

_6:35pm_

Suddenly, Harry’s gone, leaving Louis’ arms empty and his body cold. 

“What?” 

Harry’s frozen three feet away, eyes wide, touching his mouth with the tips of his fingers. He doesn’t reply. 

“Harry? Are you okay? Was that- too much? Too fast?” Louis scrambles for an explanation.

Wasn’t a bad kiss. In fact, Louis knows that it had been a good kiss, a _great_ kiss, just like he knows that two Saturdays ago he and Harry had been on a _great_ date. And although, apparently Harry had confused their date for a business meeting, he’s pretty sure that he can’t confuse a kiss for anything else. 

“I just- I-“ Harry begins, like a streaming video that’s finished buffering, but the sound and motion aren’t quite lining up yet. 

He reaches down to collect the bowls of goodies on the table, stacking them atop each other in a precarious tower, before lifting them into his arms. Louis follows him the few steps into the kitchen. 

Louis’ eyes narrow as Harry carefully repackages the treats and avoids his gaze. 

Over the pattering waterfall of carmel corn hitting the tin, Harry says, “I’m sorry. I just realized that I have a lot of work to do tonight. I’m leading three prayers and I haven’t even gone over the scripture since James and I meditated on it Tuesday afternoon.” 

“Three prayers,” Louis repeats. He has no idea if that’s a lot of prayers or not. Doesn’t _seem_ like it. 

Harry nods, opening a cupboard door and tucking the tin inside. “Yeah, with the pageant and my sermon next Sunday, on top of all the regular visits and meetings, it’s just a lot. So I definitely need to work on stuff tonight. Right now.” 

“So, all this,” Louis gestures to Harry’s general aura of busyness and discomfort, “has nothing to do with-“ 

“Louis.” The way Harry says his name, low and rough, with just a hint of a whine behind it, stops Louis mid-sentence. He waits. 

“I need to work and you need to go. I really appreciate all your help. It was really nice to have someone to share the festivities with and I’m sorry I slept through the movie. I really, really am. But, yeah, I’ve got, um, other things I have to do now so…“ 

_Are those ‘other things’ related to your boner and the giant dildo under your bed?_ Louis doesn’t ask the question, but it sits on the tip of his tongue. Honestly, the dildo hadn’t been much of a surprise. He may even have been looking for it, sort of. But he’d almost lost his shit when Harry’s computer opened to a website advertising a variety of skimpy leather apparel and sex gear. And Louis couldn’t help but notice that he was signed into the website with the username _rainbowbondagebear_. 

Louis shakes his head and turns toward the door. “I get it,” he says, “You want me to leave.” 

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “No! What? I mean, yeah, I do but not because of anything you did or said. Just, you know…” Harry trails off, but he moves in close behind Louis as they make their way to the door. 

The brass door handle is cold, biting at Louis’ bare palm. 

_Fuck it_. 

He spins on his heel so that he and Harry are nose to nose again. 

Louis reaches up to stroke Harry’s cheek and then lets his arm fall back to his side, his fingertips caressing the velvety fabric of Harry’s sweater-cover shoulder and the length of Harry’s arm. “I don’t know what is going on in your head right now, but I really like you, okay? I had a really fun time this afternoon and I’m really glad you invited me over to help.” 

Harry’s lips part and Louis leans in for one soft kiss. It’s meant to be a quick ‘farewell’ (maybe with a small side of ‘this is what you’re missing out on’), but Harry chases Louis’ lips when he tries to break away, deepening the kiss.

When Harry’s hands come up to frame Louis’ face, Louis steps back and his heels hit the base of the door. “Goodnight. See you tomorrow after church.” 

Harry swallows, drops his arms to sides, and nods. “‘Night.” 

~

_Sunday, December 18_

_11:50am_

Harry’s on the stage encircled by a group of little kids (re)teaching hand motions for Joy to the World when Louis arrives in the basement of the church for rehearsal the next day. He’s on time for rehearsal, early even. Worship must have let out before 11:45. And, in a truly stunning turn of events, Eva is directing the middle schoolers through the script on the other side of the room and they all seem to be listening, all of save Samantha, who marches over to Louis with her fists balled. 

“Thank god you’re here. Eva is ruining _everything_.”

“Oh, come on,” Louis scoffs. As far as he’s seen, the mild-mannered girl doesn’t even have it in her do anything so bold as wear red or speak in an outdoor voice. 

“She said I should look _happy_. And everyone agreed. Mr. Tomlinson, you told us to really get in touch with our characters and I do _not_ think that Mary would be _happy_ about all this.” She gestures to her midsection. She’s tucked a pillow underneath her striped sweater dress about five inches too high to approximate a believable pregnancy. 

“She’s having a baby,” Louis replies. They’ve reached the rest of the group. “Of course she’s happy.” 

“Have you _seen_ the giving birth video? No way.” 

Louis shakes his head. “I have to agree with Eva, but I think as long as you aren’t weeping, you’re alright.” 

Samantha rolls her eyes and, stupidly, Louis assumes that’s the end of it. 

~ 

_1:05pm_

“I’m quitting.” Samantha thrusts her script at Louis. Most of the other kids have left. The remaining few are singing ‘Frosty the Snowman’ with Harry on the stage as they wait for their parents to pick them up.

“Samantha, I know you don’t actually want to quit.” On stage, under the spotlight, she glows. Louis’ seen it. 

“Eva’s wrong. Do you _really_ think some teenage girl gets knocked-up mysteriously by the ‘Holy Spirit’ and then she’s just…cool with it? Because some ‘angel’ told her it was God’s baby? No way. She was probably so messed up about it. I bet she _did_ weep. Forced to be a mother _and_ a wife. That’s- that’s _bullshit._ ” 

Louis glances over at Harry, who’s standing and waving goodbye to the kids he’d been entertaining. 

“Look, Samantha. That’s how the story goes. Mary finds out that she’s pregnant with Jesus and she’s happy about it.” Louis doesn’t know much about the Bible, but he’s pretty sure that’s in there. 

“What’s all this?” Harry asks, wandering over. “Your mom just sent me a text asking me why you aren’t out yet. She’s waiting for you.” 

Samantha sighs. “I don’t think it makes _sense_ that Mary would have been happy to have a baby. Like, Mrs. Corden told us in Sunday school that she was probably the same age we are- _thirteen!_ If an angel came and told me I was pregnant tomorrow, I’d go to my mom to talk about _options_ , you know? I definitely wouldn’t get married and happily raise a kid, that’s for sure.” 

Harry takes a breath, but before he speaks, Samantha continues, “Look, Pastor Harry. I get that this is what happened because it was different back then, but I just don’t think Mary would have been happy about it and I’d rather vomit up my lungs than play her that way.” 

“Vomit up your lungs?” Louis asks, try to rid himself of the picture those words conjure.

“Actually, I think you have a point, Samantha,” Harry says. 

“Thank you,” Samantha replies, turning to glare at Louis. 

“In the Bible, when Mary finds out she’s pregnant, we’re told she was ‘perplexed’ or ‘troubled’ by the angel. She eventually agrees to carry Jesus to term, but what was she supposed to do? Tell the angel no?” 

Samantha claps her hands in Louis’ direction. “This is what I’ve been saying! She was forced.” 

Harry tilts his head. “It’s complicated. I think she probably _was_ scared and she probably did feel trapped. But she also _did_ have the honor of being ‘theotokos.’” 

“What the _what_?” 

“That’s Greek for ‘God-bearer.’ She gave birth to God in the world. God lived _inside_ her womb, grew a heart there, and little newborn fingers and toes. That’s pretty amazing.” 

Louis thinks Harry’s carrying the image a little _too_ far- in his opinion, the girl was probably knocked up and covering a mistake- but Samantha seems to be eating it up. 

“I guess so,” she says, her hand coming to rest on her now pillow-less belly. “I guess that’s cool.” 

Harry grins. “I’m jealous, honestly. I wish I could have been Mary in a Christmas pageant. I think she’s the coolest one of the lot.” 

Samantha sighs. “I suppose, it’s an okay part. My middle name is Mary and, yeah. I just don’t want to play her as happy, like Eva said. I don’t think I can.” 

“You should play Mary as honestly as you can.” Louis smiles and reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. “And, hey, I’m really happy you’re putting some thought into the role. Not everyone is. You’re talented and dedicated. That’s something to be proud of.” 

Samantha pulls away. “Tell my mom that. She’s _still_ mad I didn’t get narrator.” 

“She probably doesn’t know about the whole theo-to..” Louis looks to Harry for help. 

“Theotokos.” Harry laughs. “She just likes to hear the sound of your voice. Be flattered. She loves you.” 

Samantha makes a disbelieving face and then runs up the stairs. 

Once she’s gone, Louis says, “My mom always told me that the women in the Bible are reduced to their uteruses because men wrote the stories in it.” 

Harry dimples, biting back his actual smile. “She’s not wrong about that.” 

“That’s not what you said to Samantha just now. I think she’s old enough to handle the truth that the Bible wasn’t written by God, but by people. Not everything in it is awesome and cool. Some of it, like whatever they beat Liam up with- some of it is _shit._ ” Louis’ voice sounds more hostile than he intends. 

“What I told Samantha is true, too. People, especially people with uteruses, have been finding ways to unearth beauty and redemption from Mary’s story for millennia. I believe that God speaks through our interactions with the text as much as through the text itself.” 

“I don’t believe God speaks,” Louis says, voice still sharp, stingingly acidic. 

“I know,” Harry nods. He folds his hands in front of himself. “You’re also upset about last night.” 

“I am.” He meets Harry’s eye, surprised to hear him acknowledge it. “You kicked me out, like, really suddenly and without explanation.” 

“To be fair, you had eaten all the chocolate-covered pretzels. Party was over.” He shoots Louis a forced smile. 

“We still had a bottle of wine to drink and pizza to eat,” Louis doesn’t like the plaintive note in his voice and he doesn’t like how upset he is that a guy, _a pastor_ , didn’t want a quiet, romantic night in with him. He’s never been the cuddle-on-the-couch type; even when he’s had boyfriends, they spent most of their time out with friends, drinking and partying. 

But the feeling he’d on the couch the night before, with Harry’s sleeping form blanketed over his own, had been more enticing, more _delicious_ , than any feeling he’d ever had at the club. He wants more. 

Harry sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kicked you out. I really did have things to do, but they could have waited till morning. We had plans and I fucked up.” 

Louis does a double-take and then waits for the explanation. He’s happy that Harry’s willing to admit his mistake, but he still wants to know _why_. 

“So, yeah. Glad we cleared the air,” Harry says, rubbing his palms together. “We’ll have to hang out again soon. Maybe with your buddies Liam and Zayn. That was fun the other night.” 

“Was it?” Louis asks.

Louis hadn’t really meant it as a joke, but Harry laughs, a bark and then a honk. “You’re funny,” he says, slapping Louis on the shoulder. 

Louis’ face falls and Harry’s softens. He bites his lip and looks down at his feet. “I wanted to- last night, you said, um. Just, Louis,” Harry lifts his gaze to meet Louis’, “I really like you, too.” 

And, like that, Louis’ cold, hard heart melts. 


	16. Chapter 16

_Wednesday, December 21_

_9:35pm_

“It feels almost blasphemous to say this- Lucy, if you’re listening, we love you!- but I think this is going to be one of the best pageants ever.” James claps Harry hard on the shoulder and gives him a little shake. 

He’s not meeting Harry’s gaze, though. Instead, he’s looking over Harry’s shoulder, no doubt to where his son and daughter are shimmying out of their angel costumes. 

Harry smiles at James’ adoration of his kids and at the feedback from the dress rehearsal. Most of the older kids remembered their lines (for the most part, with some minimal prompting from Louis). The younger kids filed on and off stage on cue. No one screeched or cried at an inappropriate moment. No one took off their costume because it itched. A few of the little ones even remembered the hand motions. 

In fact, only one tear had been shed the whole night. (By Samantha-Mary, after the angel had appeared to announce that she was pregnant.) 

“I know I’ve put a lot on you these last few weeks. Lucy’s passing has been difficult for the whole church, myself included, and you’ve really pulled through for me,” James continues, returning his gaze to Harry. 

Harry winces when he thinks of the work he still has to do over the next few days. “Don’t get too excited, yet. We haven’t gotten through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.” 

“You’re ready for it, though, I know you are, buddy.” 

Harry is not ready for it, but he nods anyway. 

“How about this?” James tilts his head. “Take the day off tomorrow. Go home and drink a hottie tottie in a the bathtub. Put your feet up. Read a romance novel. That’s how Lucy used to prepare for the onslaught.” 

“I can’t do that.” As wonderful as that sounds- the bath, especially, Harry has dozens of things to do tomorrow. Like call his shut-ins to make sure they have someone to be with on Christmas and memorize Sunday’s sermon. 

James gives his shoulder one more pat. “I thought that, too, when I was as green as you, but you can. It’s called self-care,” he says and walks away, arms open wide to scoop up his waiting children. 

Louis wanders over to Harry, finally free from the passel of kids that had attached themselves to him the moment the show finished. Harry thought Louis was being a little liberal with his praise- handing out a ‘really good job’ even to Jimmy the Shepherd who’d forgotten all his lines _and_ all his stage directions, but Harry couldn’t argue that the kids glowed under his attention. 

“Have I thanked you?” Harry asks. “Because thank you. You’ve been so incredible.” 

Louis’ face softens and he murmurs, so softly that Harry almost can’t hear over the rabble of parents and kids saying goodbye to each other and pattering up the stairs, “You too. You’re really great, too, Harry.” 

“Harry!” Louis mother calls to them from a few feet away. When she reaches them, she says, “I wanted to say that really think you’ve done Lucy justice. She would have been so proud of this show.” 

Her words are directed at Harry and Louis says, “Well, hello to you, too, mom.” 

She elbows him, “You know I think _you’re_ fabulous at this. It’s your job.” 

“Thank you, Jay. Your kids are really fun to work with.” Doris was the loudest jackrabbit he’d ever heard. Granted, he hadn’t heard a lot of jackrabbits.

“He’s really, really great, isn’t he?” She beams and puts an arm around Louis. Then, pressing her head against Louis’ cheek she says, “See, I praise you, too.” 

Her face turns serious as she looks up at Louis. “Dan just went up to clean off the car and warm it up. They’re predicting a big storm tonight and the snow’s already begun. I know you live close by, but don’t stick around here too long. Most accidents happen-“ 

“-within a mile from home. I know, mom.” She’s only been telling him the same damn thing since he was sixteen years old. 

His mom gives him A Look, so he adds, “We’re just going to move the set pieces up to the Sanctuary while Liam’s here to help and then we’ll be on our way.” 

“Text me when you’re safe,” she says and then, with another Look at Harry, “ _Both of you_.” 

Anna, baby Jesus on her hip, calls Louis over. Harry watches them chat for a moment, before deciding to search out Liam. He finds him almost at the stairway, coat and hat on. 

“Hey, Liam,” Harry calls, stopping him. 

Liam turns and smiles, “Harry, hey. Good show, huh? Kids really pulled it out.” 

Harry nods. “Thank you so much for your help.” 

“Of course.” He smiles and begins to move toward the stairs again. 

“I have another favor to ask.” Asking for favors is the worst part of Harry’s job and these days it seems to be taking up 90% of his time. 

Liam winces and tilts his head. Harry almost lets it go, but then he remembers James assuring him that _people like to be asked for help_ , _makes them feel important._

“I was hoping you could stay for a few minutes and help Louis and I move the set pieces up to the Sanctuary for Saturday.” 

Liam’s brows draw together. “I’m sorry. I’d love to. I really would. But Zayn and I planned to do our gift exchange tonight because we’re both tied up with family and Louis’ birthday the next few days. He’s all the way across town and I’m afraid that if I don’t leave now, I won’t make it.” 

“Louis’ birthday?” This is the first he’s heard anything about any birthday, other than Jesus’. 

“Yeah, it’s Saturday.” His brows draw tighter. “I really have to get going. Sorry. See you on Christmas Eve!” 

Just as he disappears up the stairs, Louis materializes at Harry’s side. “Where’s he going?” 

“It’s your birthday on Christmas Eve?” Harry asks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Louis shrugs. “Didn’t seem important. Where is Liam going?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Something about Christmas with Zayn.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Does Zayn even celebrate Christmas? Probably just code for boring boyfriend stuff.” 

“Zayn _does_ celebrate Christmas with his mom’s family. Which you would know if you’d paid attention the other night at the bar. Also, boring boyfriend stuff?” 

“Oh, you know… cuddling, watching Netflix, wishing you were young and spry and up to marathon sex.”

“I think I’m young and spry enough-“ Harry cuts off. “Nevermind. That stuff doesn’t sound boring to me.” 

“Well, that’s because you’re a _pastor_.” 

“Is it?” Harry doesn’t give him time to answer. “Let’s get this stuff upstairs. I don’t trust my tiny, old junker to make it home if weather gets much worse.” 

Streetlight shines in through the windows lining the walls of the Sanctuary, the snow outside magnifying their glow. Though empty aside from Harry and Louis, the space hums with residual energy. Harry can practically hear the prayers and songs of the Spanish-speaking congregation that had used the space earlier echoing in the rafters. 

“Kind of eerie in here at night,” Louis says.

“I like it,” Harry says. “Sometimes I come in here after everyone else has left the building and lay on the floor and pray.” 

“The ghosts don’t bother you?” 

Harry laughs, setting the wooden set piece he’s carrying against the Communion table. “There are no such thing as ghosts.” 

Louis drops his piece against Harry’s with a thud. “Yes, obviously, there are. Lucy told me there are at least three that live in this building. Rumor has it one of the old pastors died in the pulpit.” 

“That is not true. He had a heart attack in the pulpit and died in the ambulance. James told me about the incident because there are _a lot_ of old ladies very worried about how well we are managing our cholesterol.” 

As they clop back down the stairs for another load, Harry asks, “So you believe in ghosts, but you don’t believe in God? That doesn’t make sense.” 

Louis shakes his head and points a finger at Harry’s chest. “No, you know what doesn’t make sense? You believe in God, but you don’t believe in ghosts. That’s weird. We have documentation that ghosts exist.” 

“I mean, you didn’t know the story of Jonah, so you might not have heard of it before, but there’s this book; it’s called the Bible and God appears in it like all the-“ 

“That’s not scientific evidence.”

Harry huffs and heaves another set piece up against his chest. “So what, is your friend Lucy haunting this place?” 

Through gritted teeth- the pieces are _much_ heavier than they looked- Louis answers, “No. I think she wouldn’t stick around without Ruth.” 

“Did you know them as couple?” Harry wonders aloud. 

They’re in the Sanctuary again when Louis answers. “I’d met her, but Ruth wasn’t around much, at least not when I was a kid. She didn’t really have a good experience with the church when she was a little girl, that’s what Lucy said, anyway. Lucy wasn’t shy about talking about her. My mom says she started coming to church with Lucy after I left for New York because her niece wanted someplace to baptize her daughters and send them to Sunday School. Lucy was devastated when she died. She asked me to drive back and sing at the funeral.” 

Harry frowns. “I should have asked you to sing at Lucy’s. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. That wasn’t in her notes and no one said.” 

Louis lays his set piece on the floor. “You asked me to do this show. This is better. Lucy would have liked this better.” 

Back in the basement, Louis watches as Harry bundles up in his jacket and hat and scarf and mittens. His eyes hold a question that Harry can’t quite decipher. “What?” he asks. 

“Why did you really kick me out the other night? Did you- are you trying to give me a hint? Tell me now because I’ve allowed myself to be led on way too long before and I really don’t think my ego could take chasing a guy who didn’t like me or think I was attractive, not again.” He lifts his chin at the end of the sentence, but he doesn’t look ready to fight. His lips are turned down and his eyes are soft. He looks sad. 

The idea that Louis could think Harry didn’t like him, that he didn’t find him attractive, startles him. “No. Louis. No. I _really_ like you. You’re so kind. And I have so much fun with you. You have the perfect voice for us to do a Christmas karaoke duet- something I’ve always fantasized about having in a partner- and you work so hard and, like, you have to know you’re beautiful. Your ass-“ Harry stops because that’s too far. 

That’s _way_ too far. 

Louis picks up the thought where Harry drops it. “Then why did you send me home? The real reason.” 

“You’re a member of the congregation. And I’m your pastor. It’s _really_ inappropriate. We’re not exactly equals, are we? It’s an abuse of power on my part.” 

“We’re not equals?” Louis’ voice cracks on the last syllable. 

Coming out of Louis’ mouth, it sounds stupid. Harry searches for the explanation they’d given him at boundary training. “Like, that sounds arrogant. But, yeah. I represent God to you.” 

“The fuck you do! I don’t even _believe_ in God, Harry. That’s bullshit.” 

Harry has to admit that he has a point. “You have a point.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Well.” Harry pulls on his hat and gestures toward the stairs. “Shall we?” 

“You are really confusing.” Louis shakes his head and then hustles forward, past Harry, pulling himself up the stairs with the handrail. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Harry tries to throw the phrase out like a joke, but Louis doesn’t turn around to catch it and it falls flat. 

He doesn’t know what else to say.

They’re quiet as Harry sets the alarm and locks up, but Louis lets out a groan when he steps out and into six inches of snow. 

“This is gonna be miserable driving. Are you sure you’ll be okay making it home?” 

Harry nods. He has to be. He doesn’t have a lot of practice driving in snow; in fact he can count the number of times he’s driven in more than a couple of inches of snow on one hand. (Because all it would take is exactly zero fingers.) But he lives way too far to walk home, especially in this weather. 

“Thanks for everything,” he says to Louis again. He can’t say it enough, really. 

Already halfway across the parking lot, Louis shouts back, “Goodnight, Harry!” 

Harry’s car door sticks when he tries to pull it open, and, then, after a couple of hard tugs, it swings free, launching Harry onto his ass. 

Fuck. 

He digs around in his backseat for the brush to clear the snow off his car and, under the seat, to his relief, he discovers the pink one his sister had sent him for his birthday last year. 

Five minutes later, wet and cold, most of his little car is still under a snow drift. Harry gets into it anyway, slides his key into the ignition, and turns it. 


	17. Chapter 17

_Wednesday, December 21_

_10:21pm_

Fingers cold and dripping with melted snow from his windshield, Louis searches his jacket pockets for his keys. Nothing. 

He must’ve put them in his shoulder bag. 

He has to brush an inch of snow off the thing before he can open it it, but, _yes,_ there, on the top, are his keys. Across the parking lot, he hears Harry’s car door slam.

Harry’s back outside and clomping through the snow toward Louis. 

“Fucking thing won’t start. I think it’s the battery. Maybe you could give me a jump?” 

Louis glances at the street. Probably six inches of snow down already. “Look, if we’re here another fifteen minutes, the snow will be too high for your little car to get out anyway. Just come home with me.” 

Harry’s brows furrow. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

“I swear my couch is comfortable. It’s in better shape than my mattress.” A sleep over might help them sort things out. And it’s only logical. So much more safer than driving across town to Harry’s apartment and then back over here to his. 

Harry reaches up to tighten the ends of his scarf. “I don’t have a toothbrush or pajamas.” 

Louis’ already picturing his too-short sweatpants bunching around the bottoms of Harry’s calves. “You also don’t have a functioning car.” He gestures to his own car. “Get in.” 

Harry glances around the empty parking lot, brow furrowed. 

“God definitely sees you.”

“What?” Harry asks, shoving his own shoulder bag into the front seat. 

Once they’re both seated and seat-belted in, Louis answers, “You were looking around like you were afraid of being caught. And you know I don’t believe in the dude, but I’m pretty sure that if your God exists, he can see you.” 

Harry relaxes into seat, and then flips his head toward Louis so that one side of his face is smooshed against the headrest. “There are so many things wrong with what you just said. First, I was not ‘afraid of being caught.’ I think you’re right. We’re not doing anything wrong. I just don’t want rumors spreading, you know? And second, _my_ God is not a dude.” 

“You’re more of a Mother Earth type?” Louis asks. The engine of his car slowly transitions from a wheeze into a more normal sounding rumble. 

“God isn’t a person, Louis.” Harry’s head rolls forward. 

“I thought,” Louis pushes, “that Jesus was God and _Jesus_ was definitely a person. Historians are pretty sure he actually existed, too. That’s what one of my history professors in college said, at least.” 

“Well, now that’s interesting.” Harry sits up and twists his body toward Louis. 

Louis decides his car is sufficiently warmed up and begins to back out of the parking space, snow crunching under his tires. 

“You see, because God- like the Divine, the Ground of our Being, both _is_ and _isn’t_ human. Through Jesus we know that God can show up in human form, but that’s not all God is, you know?” 

Louis squints at the road. Snow flies at his windshield. He’s entered the winter gauntlet. Seven blocks and he’ll be out, pulling into his parking lot. “I don’t know, Harry. But it sounds like you are very smart and have thought a lot more than I have about it. Maybe we can have this conversation a different time, though. When our lives aren’t on the line.” 

“Yeah, good idea,” Harry agrees easily. 

When Louis glances over, he’s holding onto the handle above the door. 

“I trust you. I’m sure you’re a great driver,” Harry blurts, unprompted. 

 

“You should. I am. But these roads are shit and not everyone on the road is me,” Louis replies. He’s not one to hold on himself, but he gets it. 

“I’ve never ridden through a storm like this before. Back in Connecticut I was able to hole myself away in my apartment whenever it started coming down. I could walk to campus for class and my internship was only a few blocks farther. Nice little church. Lady pastor.” 

“That’s where you learned that God was a girl?” 

“That’s not what I said. You were not listening to me, Louis,” Harry chides. 

“Sorry. It’s kind of crazy out here,” Louis grates, as his car slides through a stop sign. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna…” Harry mimes a zipping motion across his lips. “And let you concentrate.” 

“Good idea. We’re almost there.” 

~ 

After Louis’ taken Harry’s coat and shown him the bathroom (awkwardly accessible only by walking through Louis’ bedroom), they stand facing each other in the middle of Louis’ living space. It’s technically a one bedroom loft, but that’s a generous designation, as, on top of being tiny, all the rooms, _even_ the bathroom, are open to one another. 

When Louis lived in New York City, he brought many men back to a much smaller and shittier and shared apartment. But, he realizes suddenly, he’s never brought anyone aside from his mom, sisters, and Liam _here_ before- and they’d only come when he first moved in to help or, in his mom’s case, ‘to check things out.’

He’s not sure what to say. If he were alone, he’d head to his “bedroom,” such that it is, and pull up Netflix, or maybe see if the Penguins game has finished. But that seems rude, with a guest. 

Tea. That’s what his mom always offered guests. 

“Tea. Would you like a cup of tea?” 

Harry rubs his hands together. “Love tea. That’s what the old ladies at church make me. And my mom used to make it for me, too, whenever I had a cold. With a drop of honey.” 

“We can do that,” Louis smiles, happy to have something to do. 

Harry walks with him into the kitchen. 

Louis’ phone pings with a text and then, a moment later, so does Harry’s. Louis’ is from his mom. _You boys home safe, yet? Won’t be able to sleep until I know you’re safe._

She must’ve sent it to Harry, too. With a smile, he replies, _we’re safe_. 

Harry drops his phone onto the counter. “Who was that? Was that your mom? Did she text you, too?” 

Louis clicks on his electric kettle. “Yes, chill out.” 

“Do you think she’ll tell people? That we’re together?” 

“What? That I saved your ass from freezing to death? Probably. She’s a very proud mama. A little braggy, even.” Louis likes that about her, if he’s being honest. 

Harry buries his face in his hands. Louis can see the pictures his mind is painting - little old church ladies calling each other up with the latest Pastor Harry gossip - but he can’t see what all the fuss is about. Harry’s imagined love life probably gives them a little thrill.

“Here.” He slides a mug of hot water toward Harry and drops a tea bag into it. “I only have the one kind. And no Christmas mugs for me, unfortunately. But take a few sips. Everything will seem better after a cup of tea.” 

Harry takes one large gulp- even though the tea hasn’t had time to steep- and makes a face. He sets the mug on the counter with a click. “Um,” he tilts his head to the side. “I don’t want to sound like a demanding guest. But. Do you have honey?” 

Louis rolls his eyes- as if _that’s_ the problem, but he opens up his cupboard to pull it out. “Ruin a perfectly good cup of tea.”

Louis’ phone buzzes with another text and he checks it immediately. He spills tea down his front as he lifts his mug into the air. “Fucking _yes!_ ” 

Tomorrow, last day of the card marking, last day before break, last day of children high on sugar and Christmas music, last day of students oh-so-ready, but not nearly so ready as Louis, for a two week vacation- tomorrow will be a snow day. 

~ 

_Thursday, December 22_

_8:30am_

The apartment is quiet when Louis awakens. He listens for the sound of a faucet or the creak of a floorboard. Nothing. He reaches over and checks his phone to see the time. They weren’t up _that_ late last night. 

In fact, they’d gone to bed _extremely_ early by Louis’ standards, even for a school night, which, _thank god_ , this is not. He sits up in bed. The few inches between his curtains reveal, well, not much, other than blindingly white light. 

The steam in the radiator hisses and whines; it must be working, but Louis can’t feel it. He wraps his comforter around his shoulders and throws his feet over the side of the bed. When he stands and begins to walk toward the window to investigate the damage more thoroughly, he’s followed by a loud clunk-thump. 

He twists, the blanket becoming a vice around him, to see his phone lying on the floor. 

“Louis?” Harry calls from the living area. 

“Harold?” Louis replies, pulling the blanket more tightly around himself. 

“I have to pee. Like, _really_ badly.” 

And then Harry’s pushing aside the beads that separate Louis’ bedroom from the rest of the apartment. Last night he’d insisted he didn’t need Louis’ PJs; apparently he’s a hot sleeper. 

Now, he’s standing in Louis’ bedroom wearing boxers and an unzipped Penn State hoodie that Louis’ recognizes as Liam’s. 

“May I?” Harry prompts, gesturing to the bathroom.

Louis nods, eyes glued to the butterfly on Harry’s chest. 

Harry glances down and then back up. Softly, he says, “Resurrection,” and then ducks into the door-less bathroom. Louis unfreezes and rushes out of the room and into the kitchen, his blue plaid comforter billowing behind him. 

Harry’s computer sits open on Louis’ kitchen table, but the screen has gone black. Louis fights the urge to open it, see if he’s done any more… toy… shopping. Beside it rests a mug (Louis’ favorite rainbow mug) of steaming coffee and a small blue plate with a half-eaten piece of toast with jam on it. 

Louis takes a sip of the coffee and winces. Too sweet. 

“Do you want me to make breakfast?” Harry pushes through the beads with a jangle. The sweatshirt remains distractingly unzipped. 

Louis shakes his head. “I think this stale bread and jam is about the sum of my breakfast food.” 

“No?” Harry frowns at him. “You have potatoes and onions and eggs. We could have a feast. I think I even saw some apples in your bottom drawer there.” 

What a snoop. Louis doesn’t feel nearly so bad for clicking around his browser tabs. 

“I meant I didn’t have any cereal or orange juice, but you’re creative. How about _I_ make breakfast and you finish whatever you were working on?” He gestures to Harry’s computer and raises a brow. He half expects Harry to flush, as though caught. 

But instead Harry pouts. “You don’t have to do that. I can- my work isn’t going very well.” 

Louis begins to pull the necessary ingredients for scrambled eggs and potato hash and sets them on the counter. “What are you working on?” 

Harry takes the onion and cutting board out of Louis’ hands and begins to chop. “My sermon for Christmas Sunday.” 

Louis watches him hack away at the vegetable with powerful, thumping strokes. “That’s coming up soon. Are you sure you don’t want to keep working?” 

“It’s finished, or at least, it’s as good as it’s going to get. But I’m trying to memorize and I _suck_ at memorizing. That’s where it all went wrong last time. I thought if I got a head start on the process, I might do better this time, but I think I’m going to have to read it.” 

“You’re trying to memorize a manuscript?” Louis asks, sticking a potato into the microwave. 

“You’re not going to put that on a plate?” Harry asks. 

“There’s a plate already in the microwave- the one that rotates.” 

Harry opens the microwave and then reaches around to the (exact) cupboard where Louis keeps his dishes, pulls one down, puts the potato onto it, and closes the microwave again. “No wonder your kitchen was such a mess.” 

Louis blinks and realizes, suddenly, that all the dishes in his sink have disappeared and his counters are completely cleared. “You cleaned up! Thank you, but god. That’s gross. I’m a little bit of a pig. You did not have to do that.” 

“It’s the least I could do to repay you for letting me stay the night.” He squats to open up one and then another cupboard, finally freeing a large frying pan from a stack of assorted cookware. When he stands, he shrugs and meets Louis’ gaze. “Also, I wanted a clean mug for coffee and a clean plate for toast. I figured I might as well do the rest.” 

“You were awake and putting off work,” Louis accuses, mostly because he’s not sure how else to respond to Harry standing in socked feet in his newly clean kitchen frying up onions and potatoes. 

Louis closes Harry’s computer and moves it out of the way to make room for the food. “I’ve always been pretty awful at memorizing long monologues myself.” 

Harry glances over at him. “Yeah? You must’ve had to do it, though?” 

“It helps me if I memorize an outline first, before trying to remember line for line. That way I can always relay the meaning and, if I go totally blank, I can pick up somewhere relatively close, you know?” 

Harry nods. “That makes sense. James said something similar. He said he doesn’t even write manuscripts because then he’ll waste energy trying to remember exact phrasing instead of really connecting with people.” 

“Yeah, I tell some of my forensics students to work that way. It kind of depends on the person.” 

Harry dumps the potatoes into a bowl. “I wish I could just get up there and talk to people. That’s what I want to do. But I have a tendency to, um, ramble, especially when I’m nervous.” 

“You don’t say?” 

“Hey. When have you seen me-“ 

“On our first date,” Louis cuts him off, stepping between him and the stove to pour the scrambled egg mixture into the pan. 

Harry stays very close. Louis’ long lost the blanket he’d been wearing and he can feel the heat radiating off Harry’s chest even through his own thin white tee-shirt. “We’ve never been on a date.” 

Louis turns and their faces are close enough that if he leaned in, they’d be kissing. “I meant-“ he stops because he can feel Harry’s breath on his lips and turns back to the stove “-when we went to El Rancho and you asked me to help with the pageant. I don’t know why I called it a date.” 

Harry’s heat disappears. He’s moved away and is refilling their mugs of coffee. “I guess it sort of was a date,” he murmurs. 

“What?! No. For all the shit you gave me-“ 

“I’m not saying that was okay. Because it wasn’t. And I didn’t ask you out because I wanted to date you.” Harry’s voice is low and earnest. Louis recognizes the pleading tone, but doesn’t know exactly what Harry wants from him. 

“But it was a date,” Louis clarifies. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. The eggs are finished and Harry lifts one plate and then the other for Louis to fill. 

“Now,” Harry says once they’re seated. “How do I get home?” 

Louis laughs. “You don’t. We’re in the University District because I’m poor as shit. The streets around here won’t be cleared till last now that semester is finished and most of the students have gone home.” 

Harry gazes out the window. His hair curls over the tops of his ears and he _still_ hasn’t put on a shirt or pants. “It sure is pretty though. Almost magical.” 

“We should go sledding? Have you ever been?” 

Harry turns toward him. “No. I thought that was for kids. Do you even have a sled?” 

“No, but I have garbage bags,” Louis replies without missing a beat. He’s never _used_ a garbage bag for a sled before, but he’s seen it on youtube. He thinks it should work. 

“I really should use this time off to work on my sermon,” Harry hedges. 

“How’s this? I’ll clean up breakfast, you take another hour or so to work and if the roads aren’t clear by then, you’ll let me take you to my favorite hill.” 

Harry sighs. He looks out the window, then at Louis, then at his computer and then, finally, at Louis again. “Fine.” 

~


	18. Chapter 18

_Thursday, December 22_

_12:19pm_

“Fuck,” Harry says through a mouthful of snow only a moment before Louis’ body slams against him full force. Again. 

Harry gasps, searching for air. 

“You are _not_ soft,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s coat. Well, it’s actually Louis’ coat- Harry was loath to soak his wool peacoat (and his whole body beneath it.)

Still struggling to breathe, Harry rolls them over so he’s on top of Louis. Nose to nose, he grits out, “You did that on purpose. You pushed me down the hill and then you raced after me.” 

A dusting of snow and sunlight glitter on Louis’ eyelashes and cheeks. “Maybe I did. But you liked it.” 

Harry’s eyes narrow and- he can’t help it- his gaze drops to Louis’ chapped lips. 

“Admit that you liked it.” Louis says.

They’re the only ones on the hill. Louis says it’s popular with the local students, but seeing as most of them are gone on break he and Louis have the place to themselves. 

No one would see if Harry kissed him. 

“I liked it,” Harry says, rolling off of him, and laying back in the snow. His wrists and forearms burn with cold; everything about Louis’ jacket fits except the arms, which seem at least two inches too short on either side. 

“Now,” Louis says, leaning over him, eyes wild. “After the snow melts a little and freezes again- that’s the real fun time to be out here. Rode my skateboard down it once when it was a sheet of pure ice.” 

Harry licks his lips, which are easily as papery and painful as Louis’ look. “You did not.” 

Louis nods and flicks his fringe out of his eyes. At first Harry thinks it’s a casual fidget, but then he realizes that Louis’ is pointing to a small scar above his eyebrow. “Ran into a very vengeful tree.” 

Harry reaches up to press his gloved forefinger to the spot. “Did it hurt a lot?” 

Louis pouts and nods. “Liam had to drive me to the hospital for stitches. I didn’t cry, but it was a close thing.” 

“Good. Teach you never to do that again. Damn crazy skater kids.” Harry shakes his head and his hat inches up in the snow, baring the nape of his neck to the cold.

“No,” Louis says. “Taught me to wear a helmet.” 

“Oh my god.” Harry smacks a hand over his face. 

“I’m just kidding. Of course I never did that again.” 

Harry peaks up at Louis from between his fingers. The air around them is silent, except for their soft exhales, and Harry can’t stop thinking they should kiss. They should _definitely_ kiss. 

Louis eyes are on Harry’s own lips and he wonders, for a moment, if he’s somehow gained the power of telepathy. But the thought disappears as soon as their lips meet. 

Suddenly all he knows is the gentle chafing of Louis’ mouth against his own, the slick slide of Louis’ tongue as it parts his lips, the weight of Louis’ body as it settles onto his own. Harry’s arms wrap around Louis’ middle, and he arches up against him, eager to feel his heat. 

He can’t, though. The air is too cold and even Louis’ fancy snow-proof jacket isn’t keeping Harry dry any longer. 

“Let’s go home and get out of these wet clothes.” At Louis’ words, spoken against Harry’s cheek, Harry’s thoughts of telepathy return. 

He nods. “Yeah.” 

Louis hops to his feet and offers Harry a mitten, which Harry takes. Louis pulls him up with surprising force, so much in fact, that their bodies crash together, yet again. Louis’ lips graze Harry’s jaw and then dance across it to capture his lips. They’re not close enough, though, the layers of fabric and stuffing smooshing and crinkling between them. 

Louis steps back and pulls on Harry’s hand, which he’s still holding. “Come on,” he says, as though Harry’s been holding them up all by himself. 

Harry chuckles. “Alright, let’s _go_. I’m cold.” 

They practically skip back to Louis’ car, laughing, feet light, kicking up the snow that floats, soft and buoyant, like clouds underneath them. 

They’re still holding hands as Louis starts the car. He doesn’t switch gears right away, but turns to Harry, squeezes his fingers, and says, “You tasted like mint. Did you steal my toothbrush?” 

Harry’s brows draw together. “How dare you accuse m-“ his expression breaks and he starts to laugh “-yeah. But I thought you’d prefer it to my bad breath.” 

“You were planning to kiss me on that sledding hill all along,” Louis hisses, switching into reverse. The wheels spin for a moment before finding traction. 

“I wasn’t,” Harry insists. He wasn’t. He’d planned _not_ to kiss Louis on the sledding hill, in fact. He can’t bring himself to say that bit out loud, not with mitten and glove still intertwined. 

“I was,” Louis says. “Planning to kiss you on the sledding hill, I mean.” 

Harry hums. He can’t say he’s surprised. He’d noticed the way Louis’ eyes had been hot on him all morning, imaginary fingertips tracing the lines of Harry’s tattoos, imaginary lips pressing kisses onto the tops of his hips. 

Harry could have put a shirt on. He _should_ have, probably. 

The hill is only a few blocks from Louis apartment, but Louis insisted on driving- said he didn’t want to get too wet before the fun began, said he wanted to get home quickly to warm up afterward. Harry understands now where his mind must have been. 

He must have foreseen the way he’s pulling into a parking spot, the car sliding in at an angle, the way they’re chasing each other up the front steps of the building- Harry’s hands on Louis’ hips, the way Harry can’t even wait for the elevator doors to close before he’s kissing Louis against the mirrored wall. 

Harry’s grateful they’re not still blocks away slushing through the snow. 

The moment Louis unlocks the door to his apartment, he begins shedding layers, little chunks of melting snow dropping to the floor with his boots and coat and mittens. 

Harry watches him, still bundled up except for his own boots, which he removed before stepping inside. 

With his wet sweatpants halfway down his thighs, Louis freezes and raises an eyebrow at Harry. 

“Thinking about keeping those on, now?” Harry rasps. _What is he saying?_ Why didn’t he insist Louis drive him to _his_ home _?_ Why is he still here, urging Louis on? 

Louis shakes his head and continues disrobing. “No, I like my balls too much to let threaten them with frostbite. What about you? You gonna spend the rest of the afternoon all wet and frozen? Are you _that_ eager to go into the hospital on your day off?” 

Harry begins to unwind his scarf from his neck, wrapping the blue knit around one of his hands, slowly, very, _very_ slowly, as though he were frosting a cake. 

Or unfrosting it, as it were. 

Then, he strips off one white glove and then the other, revealing pink fingers and pale wrists. He doesn’t look at Louis, so he’s surprised when both of Louis’ hands reaches out to grasp one of Harry’s. He brings it to his lips and presses a warm kiss to the back of it. 

When he releases it again, Harry begins unzips his jacket, the ticking of its teeth loud in the quiet apartment. He shimmies it off his shoulders and lets it fall heavily to the floor. 

Louis’ lips part and he shivers, rubbing his hands up and down his bare arms, folding in on himself, just a bit. “Come _on._ Can’t you move any faster? I’m freezing over here.” 

Harry steps forward and tugs Louis into his arms. Louis’ body feels as though it’s been hewn from ice- wet and cold to the touch. Harry presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek. 

Louis pulls away. “We have to get you out of these wet clothes.” He pulls at the bottom of Harry's shirt and, wet as it is, it stretches. 

“Oh, we do?” Harry asks. “Why don’t you make me?” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. And then he lunges at Harry- the heaviness of the moment dissolving as Harry ducks out of the way, sliding across the wood floor in his socked feet. 

“You’re going to catch cold,” Louis tells him. He’s walking toward Harry, taking slow, deliberate steps, as though approaching an injured, but dangerous animal. 

Smart man. Harry just might bite him. 

When Louis is inches away, hands reaching out to grab him, Harry dodges away again, this time into the kitchen. It’s not a very strategic move, because the area is small and enclosed. Louis easily crowds him up against the fridge. 

Louis leans in and their noses brush. “Get these clothes _off_.” 

Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “You must really want me naked.” 

“I _do_ ,” Louis hisses, hands diving underneath Harry’s sweatshirt and pushing it up and over his head. Once it’s on the floor, Harry shakes out his hair and tries to step away. 

Louis catches his arm. “Oh, no. We’re not done.” His other hand, Harry realizes, is on the button of Harry’s jeans and then the zip, fingertips brushing over the side of Harry’s cock. 

Louis' arms drop to his sides and he steps back. “Fuck. You’re not wearing any underwear.”

Harry’s pants hang open and the bare patch of skin feels the chill the of the air. “They were dirty. I didn’t bring a change.” 

Louis’ hands return to Harry’s hips, his thumbs sliding in between denim and skin. Gaze hot on Harry’s, he asks, “Is this okay?” 

Harry’s head falls back against the fridge. He closes his eyes and tries to think, but his whole world- everything he knows and cares about- has narrowed to the mere inch and half of skin between Louis’ fingers and Harry’s very hard cock. 

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes.” 

Louis’ hands slide in the opposite direction Harry expects, cupping Harry’s ass, but that’s okay because he’s slipping a leg between Harry’s, grinding his thick thigh against Harry’s dick and fusing his mouth to Harry’s neck. 

Harry rolls Louis’ t-shirt up his back, reveling in the flex of Louis’ muscles, the smooth expanse of skin under the tips of his fingers. 

Louis twists and shudders against him. His lips move against Harry’s throat. “Sorry. Sensitive back.” 

Intrigued, Harry repeats the motion, testing Louis’ reaction, this time to the edge of his nails. 

Louis hips roll forward, knocking Harry against the fridge at a different angle. Something attached to it by a magnet clicks and swooshes to the floor. 

“Bedroom,” Louis mutters, stepping back. 

Harry follows him across the living space, hopping a little as he strips off his wet jeans. He shoulders his way through the beads, breath catching as in front of him Louis peels the shirt off his body and then steps out of his boxers one leg at a time. 

He stands in the center of his room, the backs of his thighs pressed against his mattress, naked. His cock is thick and full, its pink head pointing in Harry’s direction, seemingly as drawn to Harry as Harry is drawn to it. 

“Is this some sort of inspection? How do I look? Want to take me for a nice long ride?” He reaches up to tug at his fringe. “Hell, at this point, I’ll even let you take a test drive.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Harry asks, laughing and stepping forward so that, again, they’re breathing the same air. “You’re not a car, Louis. You’re a person. A person who is banned from metaphors.” 

“Don’t you want to put your key in my ignit-“ Harry cuts him off with a rough kiss. Chasing Louis’ mouth with his own, Harry pushes him gently back onto the bed. Within seconds, Louis flips them so that he’s on top. 

He sits up, his ass hot on Harry’s cock, and traces a finger over Harry’s butterfly. “I love this tattoo.” 

“How come you don’t have any?” Harry asks. “Scared?” 

Louis pokes the center of Harry’s chest. “No. Just they’re not ideal in the theater world- lots of work to cover up. And never thought I liked them much. But this is beautiful. I might be changing my mind.” 

He reaches over to stroke the star on Harry’s upper arm and Harry shivers, cock twitching. 

Suddenly starving for more kisses, Harry pulls him back down. Louis’ appetite seems to match Harry’s own as he meets Harry open mouthed and eager. Louis _tastes_ so good, he does- bitter and sweet all at once- but as soon as their cocks brush, Harry cants his hip, hungry for something else entirely. 

One of Louis’ bare thighs ruts against Harry. It’s firm and the coarse hair that covers it grazes the sensitive skin of Harry’s cock. Harry arches his back, bucking, his hands scrambling for purchase, just the right pressure at just the right angle.

Louis seems to be seeking an elusive rhythm, rocking steadily against him for a few moments and then picking up speed, movements turning pointed, staccato, his shoulders shaking with exertion.

Harry’s attention fastens onto the friction of their groins pressing together, and he’s only vaguely of Louis’ open mouth on his cheek and the cool imprint of his thumbnail where it rests against Harry’s arm. 

Louis’ beginning to grunt, heavy high hisses of breath, each one timed perfectly with his thrusting. Is he- _yes_ , Louis is coming, hot and wet between them, before Harry’s even had a chance to lay a hand on him. 

Harry closes his eyes and slides his hand between their sweat-slick skin to wrap a fist around his own cock. With Louis’ breath heavy and hot in his ear, he pushes forward toward the precipice that’s waiting for him- he _knows_ \- just beyond that. next. arch. _of hips._

And then he’s there, coming, falling over the edge, racing after Louis, catching him and holding them tight together as they land, gasping for air.

“Fuck,” Harry breaths, closing his eyes again. “Oh, fuck.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple of inaccuracies that are driving me nuts as an author but i'm too lazy to deal with: 
> 
> 1) garbage bag sledding, i imagine, leaves one with a very bruised ass- i guess if you only go down the hill once or twice you might be okay, if the snow was very deep and very soft, but that seems like it wouldn't be very fun- given you wouldn't go very fast and the air would have to be painfully cold. 
> 
> 2) i almost made a note about this at the time, but chose not to. given this weekend's shenanigans, it feels even more glaring. harry would most definitely have participated in christmas karaoke at winterfest.


	19. Chapter 19

_Thursday, December 22_

_1:06pm_

Louis rolls onto his side. He’s out of breath and sticky, but he wants to see Harry’s face. 

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach telling him that he’s just made a terrible mistake, that Harry is about to break his heart. 

Harry’s eyes remain closed, his breathing evening out more quickly than Louis’. 

“Are you sleeping or are you avoiding me?” Louis asks. God, he could not sound _more_ needy if he tried. So much for his acting skills. 

Harry’s eyes flick open, pupils shrinking to adjust to the light. “Neither.” 

“You’re upset that we just- that we did that, aren’t you? Have you ever, like…was that your first?” Louis hates himself. How did he not think this through? Harry _did_ say yes but they were both so caught up in the moment. 

Harry smiles and then begins to chuckle. He can’t be too upset if he’s _laughing_ and relief floods Louis’ body, followed by a flush of mortification. “Don’t laugh at me.” 

“You think a lot of yourself, don’t you? That after twenty-five celibate years, I’d give it up for you just like that.” 

Louis pokes Harry’s shoulder. It’s red from where he’d been gripping it- _hard_ \- minutes before. “I’m _trying_ to be respectful of your boundaries. You _flipped_ out and shut down after we kissed before and I didn’t want you to do that again, because that was a little more than kissing.” 

“Yeah,” Harry replies, closing his eyes again. “Yeah, it was.” 

“You’re flipping out again,” Louis decides. 

“I’m flipping out again,” Harry agrees. 

“Why?” Louis reaches out to tuck a sweaty curl behind one of Harry’s ears. “You like me, I think. At least, that’s what you said.” 

“I do.” 

“You wanted to do that. I wanted to do that. Is it a ‘sin’ thing?” Louis has never hated the idea of God or the church as much as he does in that moment (and he’s been _very_ angry at them before). How could something so wonderful as what they just shared be considered wrong or bad by any measure? 

Except that Harry says, “No. It’s not that. I think that sex between consenting equals- especially ones that care for each other and communicate clearly- I think that pleases God.” 

“If there’s nothing objectively wrong with what we did, if you think it pleased God, then why the fuck aren’t you smiling and laughing and plying me with kisses and cuddles.” That’s all Louis wants right now. To be held a little. 

Harry swallows and meets Louis’ eyes. “I don’t want to lose my job. If someone were to find out about this, I’m afraid I might.” 

Louis shakes his head. “ _Why_ , though? You’re not a priest. You’re allowed to be romantically involved with people, aren’t you?” 

“Not with parishioners, I’m not. And, yeah, I know that you’re not active in the church and I know that you don’t even believe in a God for which I could stand proxy. But technically, you’re still a member of the church, so technically, I could still lose my job at St. Andrew’s and my standing as pastor in the wider church; I might have to find a whole new line of work.” 

Louis blows out a breath and falls heavily back to the bed. It doesn’t seem right or fair. Then, he remembers, “Technically, I’m _no_ t a member.” 

Harry reaches out and links their pinkies together. “You’re not?” 

“They kept sending me letters and stuff, mostly asking for money, when I was in New York City and I got fed up and called Sally to tell her take me off the lists. I was deep into my most vehement atheist stage at that point because of all the shit with Liam and that campus church group. I wanted nothing to do with anyone that claimed the name Christian because by doing so they were associating with what I saw as pure evil and hate.” 

“Well, that helps,” Harry says. “But I’m worried that people might not see it as that way. And, also, I wouldn’t put it past Sally to take you off the mailing list but keep you in the rolls. She likes you.” 

“I can find the email, if we need it to prove anything,” Louis pushes. “I never delete anything out of my gmail account. And we can keep it a secret, too, for a little while at least.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. He wouldn’t want to keep a relationship with Harry a secret. It’d be too much like going back into the closet. He did that once for a boy and swore never to do it again. 

“Nothing is a secret at St. Andrew’s. Especially not when your mom knows it- do you really want to keep this from your mom?” 

“I couldn’t. I can’t keep anything from her,” he admits. “But even if you _did_ lose your job- and I still don’t think you would- you’re _so_ talented- smart and funny and friendly and well-spoken. You could find other work in a heartbeat.” 

Harry sighs. “This job- not just the one at St. Andrew’s, but being a _pastor_ \- it’s a part of who I am, it’s as intrinsic to me as my sexual orientation or my relationship with my family. I can’t lose my standing as pastor. Not for you, not for anything. God _called_ me to this. Louis, I need you to understand that.” 

Louis takes back his earlier thought. At _this_ moment, he’s the angriest that he’s ever been at the idea of God and the church. Even though he knows it’s completely irrational- they haven’t even known each other a month- he wants to be more important to Harry than his job. 

Then, suddenly, his heart breaks with the futility of it all. If, somehow, he and Harry were to get past this, it wouldn’t matter. He’d never be first to Harry, never. ‘God’ would _always_ come first.

“Well.” His voice breaks. “It was good sex, I guess.” 

Harry rolls over onto his side to look into Louis’ face. He leans down and places a tender kiss on Louis’ lips. Louis lets him, but can’t bring himself to return it. 

“It was really good, Louis. I’m sorry we can’t, like, do it again.” His voice is rough and his eyes are filled with tears. 

Louis realizes he’s covered in goosebumps and, a moment later, the heat clicks on. “We should shower.” 

Harry collapses back onto the bed. “Yeah.” 

~

_2:02pm_

Louis pulls into Harry’s parking lot. Or he tries to. The ramp hasn’t been plowed and, after rolling backward, he has to back up further and try again. 

Should’ve gone with the snow tires- his mom is always telling him they’re worth it. “I think this is as far as I’m going to be able to get you.” 

“Thank you for driving me home.” Harry replies. He hasn’t unbuckled his seatbelt or moved toward the handle. 

“You weren’t going to _walk_.” 

“I could have called someone.” Harry twists in his seat. “Hey, Louis. Look at me.” 

Louis does, keeping his face schooled, expression even. The sadness he’d initially felt after sex has turned into something itchier, rage hissing and spitting as it begins to boil in the pit of his stomach. In last hour or so, angry thoughts have been piling up inside him and the one he can’t get past is this: how is a one night stand _more_ ethical in Harry’s mind than at least _trying_ to see if it would work between them? 

Harry tilts his head, expression soft, and says, “If there was a way to make things work between us, I’d want to try, but I just don’t see one that doesn’t put my job at risk. God- or, sorry, the universe, fate, circumstance, whatever you want to call it, it’s not working in our favor.” 

Louis explodes. “Listen, Harry. I like you. I _really_ , really like you. We’re good together. We make each other laugh. If that pageant is anything to go by- we make a damn good team. I even think that our views of the world, what we value- it’s not that different. We care about our families and making people happy. But here’s where we aren’t on the same page: you let things happen to you. The universe closes a door, and you let it stay closed, call it God’s will. Well, sometimes you have to open that door back up yourself.” 

As soon as the words are out of Louis’ mouth an ear-ringing silence fills the car. 

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Harry says finally, low voice a contrast to Louis’ loud, shrill tone. He unbuckles his seatbelt with a jerk and grabs the door handle. “That’s not- I work hard. I try hard. Sometimes some things just aren’t meant to be and there’s nothing you _can_ do about them.” 

“That makes life easier, doesn’t? Thinking there’s some key to these stuck doors, a key that God has and you don’t. You have arms. You have legs. You can get a hold of a blow torch. You’re not _powerless._ ” 

Harry shakes his head and pushes the car door open. “I told you to leave the fucking metaphors alone.” He climbs out. 

“Don’t you dare slam that door,” Louis calls, but, of course, slam it, Harry does. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will have to answer yesterday's comments later in the day, maybe not till evening. <3 <3

_Thursday, December 22_

_2:45pm_

Harry scrolls through his Facebook feed one last time, pictures of babies in Santa hats and cats beneath Christmas trees blurring together, before closing out of the app. He has two text messages from James and a third from a woman worried her daughter will be too sick to participate in Saturday’s pageant. 

He opens up his contacts and finds himself pressing ‘call’ before he can stop himself. 

“Well, hello.” His mom sounds surprised. “It’s not Sunday afternoon. Is everything okay?” 

“Yes,” Harry lies. “Just wanted to say hi.” 

“I saw the photos you put up of the snow this afternoon. Kind of makes me want to fly out and visit you in the winter some time.” 

“Yeah?” Harry asks. She’s _never_ done so beforeand this will be his fourth winter out east. She’s never even expressed this sort of mild interest. “Some good skiing nearby.” 

“If we flew out there, we’d be coming to see you. We have _real_ mountains much closer.” Harry thinks this is a little unfair. She hasn’t actually _seen_ the Appalachians, as far as he knows. 

“You could come out in January or February. There’s a hotel a few blocks away from the church, right by the university. Really nice. At least, it looks nice from the outside.” 

His mom hums, stalling, because, of course, she doesn’t _actually_ want to leave her sunny paradise, not even to keep her poor, lonely son company. 

The line is quiet for one beat. And then another. 

“Are you still there?” His mom asks finally breaking the silence. 

“Yeah.” 

“What’s going on, honey?” Her voice folds and crinkles over the two thousand miles between them. Harry aches to hear it beside him, as thick and soft as he knows it is. 

He thinks about Louis’ face, pink from the cold. About Louis gasping for breath, soft and pliant, above him. About the scowl Louis sent him later when he’d come out of the bathroom wrapped in only a towel. About the squeal of Louis’ tires in the snow as he’d pulled away from Harry’s apartment building. 

Harry’d turned on Netflix when he’d gotten home, meaning to take James’ advice on a day off to heart. But he hadn’t been able to focus. Not even Chopped Junior, with its relentlessly ticking clock, could keep a grip on his attention. His mind kept slipping free to turn over and over and over Louis’ final accusation. Harry _knows_ he’s not powerless, but he doesn’t know how to make this- him and Louis- work. 

“I’m- I think I made a really big mistake today,” he finds himself saying. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” 

“No. I just want to know that everything is going to be okay anyway.” His voice sounds so small, so pitiful. He wonders what his congregation would think of him if they saw him now, on the phone with his mom, almost in tears over a relationship that hasn’t even properly begun. They’d probably never trust him with their own problems ever again. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “You’re alright. No matter what happens, Gemma and I will love you and be there for you.” 

Her words wrap around him like a hug, filling him with a sense of peace, even over the distance between them. 

Then she adds, “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?” 

“I’m sure,” Harry says. She’d ask too many questions, questions for which he does not have the answer. 

“I won’t pretend to understand why- it’s never worked for me- but I know that when your grandmother was anxious about something, whenever she felt guilty, she’d use her rosary. She’d pray. She was always telling me to do the same. Have you tried that?” 

Harry chews his lip, gaze drawn to the cross hanging on his kitchen wall. He hasn’t. He’s not sure he wants to, either. 

“Obviously,” he lies. He’s a pastor. Prayer is supposed to be his first resort in all situations, not something he reluctantly ‘tries’ because his atheist mother suggests it. 

“I’m worried about you. With that weather and in this busy time of year. And all alone. How’s your car holding up?” 

Harry groans. “Yeah, I don’t want to talk about that, either.” 

~

_Friday, December 23_

_10:51am_

James strolls into Harry’s office with a plate of cookies and sets them on Harry’s desk. “From the kids,” he says. 

Harry peaks underneath the plastic wrap to see an array of angels and bells and Christmas trees frosted in pink and blue and orange and covered in red and green M&Ms. Creative kids. It’ll make a filling dinner, one of these nights. “Tell them thank you.” 

James reaches out to spin around the blue mug that holds Harry’s phone (and its Facebook app out of Harry’s reach) on the corner of Harry’s desk. His phone falls from one side to the other with a click. “The Star of Bethlehem. Leading the way to baby Jesus. How very appropriate.” 

“Found it in the kitchen a couple weeks back. Sally said no one would miss it.” 

James hums. “It was Lucy’s. Couldn’t be parted from it this time of year.” 

The thought makes Harry smile. With the abundance of work that the pageant has turned into, he imagine her needing _a lot_ of coffee. 

“Also,” James has his hands behind his back. “Julia wanted to know what your plans are for Christmas Day. Your sister is coming into town, right?” 

Harry pulls his lower lip into his mouth and bites, hard. He’s been trying not to think about how that afternoon will probably feel like every other Sunday afternoon, if not slightly more exhausting. Maybe for lunch he can make friends with the local Jewish community at the Chinese restaurant down the road. 

Harry sighs. “She decided not to come. My mom and step-dad are not doing great. So that’s, well, it is what it is.” 

Maybe someone will need him to sit with them in the emergency room. The nurses on call might be able to find him a cookie or a candy cane. 

“We would offer for you to come over to ours, but we’re flying out to Julia’s parents’ first thing in the morning. I’m sure I could help you find a place to go, though, if you wanted. Sue, you know, from the kitchen? She’s always inviting strays to her holiday feast and trying to fix them up.”

“Sue?” Harry asks. It’s not that he doesn’t believe James; it’s more that he doesn’t believe that James actually thinks Harry would be happy spending Christmas with the woman who told Harry he’d be a better preacher if he starched his collars. 

James shrugs. “I don’t want you to be alone.” 

“It’ll be quiet for once. I think that’ll be nice.” Harry wonders if he sounds believable. Probably not, but James leaves it be. 

“I noticed your car was in the parking lot when I got here this morning but _you_ didn’t show up till an hour later. What’s up with that?” 

“Came on the bus. It wouldn’t start the other night. Sally tried to jump it this morning and nothing.” Harry has been avoiding thinking of that, too. Sally’s husband told him over the phone that it was likely the transmission, though how he could know from the mere fact that it won’t start is beyond Harry. The shops will be closed the next couple of days and the fixing might take a lot of money that he doesn’t have at the moment. 

Hell, right now he’s not sure he has money in his account to pay for the tow. 

“How did you get home?” James asks. 

Harry’s pulse picks up, but he doesn’t look away, even though he wants to. He can’t see a way around the answer without lying. “Louis Tomlinson.” 

James waggles his eyebrows and Harry’s stomach drops. “Been spending _a lot_ of time with that young man, haven’t you?” 

Harry nods. “Because of the pageant. Yeah.” 

“So?” James presses, leaning up against Harry’s desk. “That’s the _only_ reason?” 

Laughter laces James’ question. Harry doesn’t understand how he can be _joking_ about something so serious as the major boundary violation he’s suggesting. 

Sally appears in the door to Harry’s office, an angel of distraction. “Oh good, you’re both in here. I wanted to you to look over the draft of the bulletin for Christmas Eve.” 

“One minute, Sally. I’m grilling Harry on his love life.” James gives her a meaningful eyebrow raise and then shifts his attention back to Harry. “Well?” 

“Oh, have you and Louis decided to give it a try? I think you’d be so good together. Very handsome. Very funny. Went through a lot of boys at one point, but I think he’s probably ready to settle down, now. At least, that’s what his mom thinks.” Sally sets the bulletin in front of Harry. 

“He’s a _member_ of the _church_ ,” Harry bursts. “Are you _kidding_?” 

“Oh no, honey, he hates the church,” Sally says, her face falling. “Sorry to tell you. That’s why I wasn’t so sure when Lucy suggested that the two of you- well- I just wasn’t so sure.” 

“So he’s _not_ a member of the church?” Harry clarifies, eyes dropping to the gleaming wood of his desk. He can’t look at her or James any longer. 

“No,” Sally confirms. “Wrote me a very nasty email about it a few years back. I was pretty upset, but then his mom explained to me the whole situation with his best friend and those crazy Christians.” 

Harry nods and then looks up.“Wait. What was that about Lucy?” 

A smile teases at the corner of James’ lips, his eyes still narrowed in on Harry’s face. “Lucy was a smart woman. That’s all. And I’m pretty sure you’re interested in Louis for more than his pageant directing skills.” 

“Leave him be,” Sally says, with a little huff. She adjusts her glasses and taps the bulletin. “We have work to do. Look this over.” 

Harry loves her.

~

_1:09pm_

Harry settles into one of the comfortable chairs on the other side of his desk and lights his three candles. 

Creator. Christ. Holy Ghost. 

 

In front of the candles, he lays the rosary his grandmother had given him at his First Communion. He doesn’t use it much these days. Usually, it hangs on a nail beside his bed. 

He makes the sign of the cross and then, begins to pray, _I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord…_

The scent of the candles and the smooth slide of the beads against his fingertips transports Harry back to another, similar period of prayer. 

Harry’s summer in South Africa opened his eyes to so many possibilities. Church didn’t have to mean the same, dreary mass Sunday after Sunday. Harry loved his grandma’s Catholic church with its cavernous ceilings and lingering scent of incense. He loved the Catholic retreat group that had taken him in after Timmy’s death. And he loved the Catholic student parish that had groomed him as a student leader. But in South Africa he’d met missionaries from a dozen different branches of churches around the world. 

Some of what these other branches taught and practiced felt more _right_ to Harry, suited better the way he experienced God in his life and in the world. 

He became all but certain that God was calling him in a new direction.

José, Harry’s boyfriend and fellow Catholic student leader, had been so _angry_ , face red, eyes practically bulging out of his sockets, as he’d reminded Harry of their plan. Harry’s trip to Africa was supposed to point him toward the church, not away from it. Sitting across from each other in the little cafe in the basement of the History Building, Harry tried to explain to José that it _had,_ that he was more convicted by his call to ministry in the church than ever. 

Just, not the Catholic church. Not the priesthood. 

Harry didn’t think he could do what José wanted, pretend to be straight and celibate, while secretly continuing their relationship into Seminary and beyond. For a long time, he’d thought he could, that this was exactly the life the God was calling them both into. He wasn’t so sure, anymore.

He’d left that conversation with José promising to ‘pray about it.’ 

And he had. For a long time. Weeks of ignoring José’s desperate and then bitter texts, waiting for God to show up and confirm what Harry felt to be true. 

Harry has prayed to God for guidance many times, before and since. Usually God answers him, the message prompt and clear.

He’d prayed to God about whether or not he should apply for the Student Leader position at that Catholic campus ministry, only to be interrupted mid-prayer by a text from the priest asking if he’d finished his application yet. 

He’d prayed to God about where should he pursue his Masters in Divinity. Within a week, Yale’s offer of a full ride had appeared in the mail. 

Hell, he’d prayed to God for help with this damn Christmas pageant and the next day, there Louis was, sitting in the pew, as though waiting for him. 

But with José, Harry never received an answer. Not one he could make sense of. After the spat in the cafe, they never talked again, not privately anyway. Harry still has one of José’s sweatshirts, tucked away in the back of his closet. 

Through Facebook Harry knows that José’s plans to become a priest have long since been discarded and that he’s living with a new boyfriend outside of LA. 

The only meaning Harry has been able to make out of the situation and God’s silence in it is this: God isn’t invested in Harry’s heartbreak. Harry’s career, Harry’s family, Harry’s health- yes. His love life, not so much. 

Still, here Harry is, years later, praying to God about a boy. A man, really, now. 

Should he try with Louis? Will he be putting his career on the line? Might it be worth it? 

Louis said that Harry wasn’t powerless in this situation- that he had the power ‘to open the door.’ Harry huffs out a bitter laugh at the memory of the stupid metaphor. But Louis is right, of course. Harry has a choice to make. He just doesn’t want to fuck things up. Not for Louis, not for himself, not for God. 

A rough knock pulls him out of his reverie. Through the window, he sees Sally outside his office. She meets his eye and jangles the handle. 

He realizes that she needs him to open the locked door. He hums, blows out his candles, and walks over to let her in. 

“I wouldn’t have interrupted, but I wanted to catch you before I went home for the day. I know you visit Rosa sometimes. Well, I just got a call from her granddaughter and she said she hasn’t been doing very well. I thought you might want to check in on her, if you have time. You can take my car, if you need.” 

Harry nods. Of course, for Rosa, he always has time. 

~

_2:13pm_

Rosa isn’t waiting in the front window when Harry arrives and he stands on her front stoop rubbing his hands together and ringing the doorbell. 

She’s leaning on her cane when she opens the door and her face is surprisingly pale, but she greets him with a smile, “I’m so glad you’re here. Come in.” 

The warm air hits him hard and he sheds his coat and hat quickly. “Hello, Rosa, I’m really glad I could be here.” 

“How tall are you?” She asks, tipping her head to look up at his face. 

“Five, eleven,” Harry answers.

“My Howard was six foot,” she tells him. “That was tall for a man back then.”

“Still is, I say,” Harry replies. He hasn’t seen her in a while, but he hasn’t forgotten his lines and neither has she. 

She manages a weak wink in his direction. 

She has twinkle lights around her window and an advent wreath on her kitchen table. 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” 

He nods and watches her move creakily about the kitchen. She says, “I hate this weather. I hurt so much more this time of year. I don’t know how many more winters I have in me.” 

“Is there anything the doctors can do for the pain?” Harry asks. 

Rosa sets the kettle on the stove and sits down across from him at the table. “Right here,” she touches her chest. “That’s what hurts the worst.” 

“Is it your heart?” Harry asks, mind jumping to the heart attack and stroke checklists.

She closes her eyes and then, after an immeasurably long pause- long enough that Harry wonders if she’s fallen asleep, opens them again. “I miss my Howard.” 

Harry nods. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. 

“This time of year was special to us, as I suspect it is to most people.” Her words are so slow today, plodding along without their usual skip-hop-jump. “We took a great deal of pleasure in decorating together. We _always_ had the most festive house on the block, even after the kids were grown. A few years back, those grown kids decided they didn’t want dad up on a ladder anymore, so they started to come over to do it up for us. You better believe he was still out there directing their every move. We both were.” 

As far as Harry can tell, the twinkle lights and advent wreath are the full extent of her decorations this year. “I’m sure they still would help out,” Harry says. Her daughter and son-in-law live a little over an hour away, but they’re very good to her, always coming over to fix this or that. Her granddaughter lives even closer, occasionally even drives her to church. 

She shakes her hand. “That’s not necessary. It was never about the decorations. Not for me, anyway. It was about how much joy the sparkle of them brought to Howard, how they gave us an excuse to spend a little extra time together. That was the fun part.” 

Harry nods. He thinks about Louis humming along to Mariah Carey while constructing Harry’s tiny tree and then about the fight they’d had with the caramel corn, how he’d found a sticky kernel of it in his briefs the next morning. 

“One year, my best friend wanted to take a trip right before Christmas. She’d won a magazine vacation to some tropical island and she wanted me to go with her. This was before Howard even fell ill and I knew I would have had fun. My daughter fussed at me for turning her down, but I’m really glad that I didn’t go. I’m glad that I spent every Christmas I could with Howard and my kids.” 

“Christmas is about family for you?” Harry asks. He thinks he’d take the tropical vacation right about now. 

Rosa tilts her head. “Christmas is about _love_ coming down from Heaven and spreading.” 

Harry swallows. Of course it is. And here _he’s_ supposed to be the pastor. 

~

_3:21pm_

When Harry returns to the car, he pulls out his phone. There’s a text from Liam, _louises bday prty 2nite at his place. u should come. 8pm. he really likes presents. ;)_

He also has a missed call. From Samantha’s mother. What _now_?! 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to be overdramatic, but I do want to err on the side of caution. Today’s update deals very heavily with grief (over previously mentioned character death). The chapter was plotted long before the announcement of Jay’s passing, but I think now it will hold particular poignancy for many. 
> 
> If you want to skip to tomorrow, there's just a couple of small plot developments that I would be happy to summarize for anyone in a private message on tumblr or over email.

_Friday, December 23_

_2:18pm_

Louis rolls a strip of tape into a little loop and places it underneath the white bow. He sticks it on top of the red wrapping. It hangs at an odd angle. He tells himself that Lottie won’t care- she just wants the gift inside. 

His phone rings. Stacy Peters, Samantha’s mom. He sighs and clicks ‘ignore.’ If it’s something urgent about the pageant she can call Harry and he can fucking deal with it.

Louis clicks the screen on and then off again. 

And he’d been doing so well _not_ thinking about Harry. 

In fact, he’d been very _actively_ not thinking about the fact that Harry posted _Facebook_ pictures from their sledding trip _after_ their fight. 

(Why would Harry do that if he was worried about losing his job over Louis? Granted, none of the pictures included Louis’ face, but still. The gesture _seemed_ like an olive branch?) 

Louis frowns and mentally kicks himself. He’s done pushing. If Harry wants to reach out to him, he’ll be here (maybe… for a little while at least…), but he’s not doing any more of the reaching himself. 

His phone vibrates in his hand and he glances back down to see that Stacy Peters left him a voicemail. 

He leans back in his desk chair and takes a deep breath, trying to calm the jitter of nerves ringing through his body. He’s rarely nervous about a performance these days, especially not one with such low stakes as the St. Andrew’s Christmas pageant. 

One year before Louis was old enough for a speaking part, he remembers that the narrator had barfed all over her script _as she was reading it_. The rest of the show had gone on marvelously, Lucy confirmed to him years later. 

Lucy. 

Maybe he’s nervous because he’s never done this before. Things always went smoothly in the past because of Lucy’s meticulous preparation and ability to roll out plans A-Z, prepared for any contingency. Details have never been Louis’ strong suit as a director- that’s why he brings in Zayn for the sets and as many parents as possible for props and costumes. 

Beside his computer is a small pile of photo albums, each one filled with pictures of previous Christmas pageants starring Louis and his siblings. He opens the top one. It’s from just last year. The first picture is familiar, almost exactly the same as Louis’ lock screen of Doris and Ernie, except in this one Doris’ mouth is open wide, chattering away. 

He flips the page and then there she is, Lucy, an arm wrapped around his mom, both of them grinning. Louis is not prepared for the force with which the pain hits him. 

Lucy directs the Christmas pageant. That’s what she does, who she is. Louis isn’t meant to do it. He’s not ready. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

He needs her here to help. She would know how to deal with the Peters’ diva act. She wouldn’t’ve fucked things up with the pastor helping her out. 

Mechanically, he opens his voicemail app and scrolls to find her last message to him. He listens to it. Once. And then, again. 

Finally, he scrolls up and listens to Stacy Peters’ message. 

_“Hi Louis, I’ve tried reaching Pastor Harry, but he isn’t answering either. Samantha’s threatening to quit the pageant. Well, actually, she isn’t threatening it, she’s told me that she’s already decided on it. She hates her part- which, I told you this would be a problem from the very first day. Anyway, so many of our relatives are coming into town- some of the ones from Florida, even- and they’re really excited to see her in a show. I was wondering if you might be able to have a conversation with her, see if you can’t convince her. She really respects you- thinks you’re cool. I think she might respond differently to you than to me. Give me a call.”_

Louis sighs. He’s not sure ‘cool’ will cut it, but he dials Stacy back, anyway. 

The conversation does not go how Louis expects. Stacy is incredibly apologetic, for one, admitting that her daughter is in the wrong. She asks if Louis would be willing to take Samantha out for hot coco, thinks chocolate and someone taking her seriously might do the trick. 

Louis glances at the stack of unwrapped gifts in bags beside his desk and then at the clock ticking down the minutes until his birthday party. He really doesn’t have that kind of time today. A brief phone or Skype meeting would be better. But then his eye catches on the photo of his mom and Lucy still open on his desk and he hears himself say, “Sure. I can meet her in a half an hour at Starbucks.” 

“You’re a hero. You really go above and beyond for your students and they feel it, Louis. Thank you so much.” 

“No problem,” he replies. “See you soon.” 

He sets the phone down on his desk with a small thud and closes his eyes. A moment later it begins to vibrate again. 

“Hi mom,” he answers. 

“I just wanted to run something by you,” she says. Her voice is light with laughter. 

“Okay, shoot,” he replies. 

“It’s really not a big deal. And even if you say no, I might do it anyway. I have the final say in this one, not you.” Always with the dramatics. 

“Yep, go on,” Louis presses. “What is it?” 

“You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Harry, haven’t you?” she asks. This cannot possibly be what she wants to run by him. His mind grasps at how it might be related to anything, anything at all. 

“Yeah, he’s… cool, new to the area, needed some friends.” 

“Oh, yes,” his mom agrees. “Exactly. A little birdie told me that Harry’s going to be all by himself on Christmas day.”

Louis hums. He sees where this is going now. 

“And I thought, especially since the two of you are becoming such good _friends_ , that it might be nice to invite him to have Christmas dinner with us. He’s a sweetheart and no one should be alone on Christmas.” 

The line is silent. 

“So, what do you say?” His mom asks, finally. 

Louis wants to say ‘no.’ He cannot imagine a more awkward Christmas dinner. But then his mom will ask _why_ he said ‘no’ and he _really_ does not want to explain. He can’t imagine Harry will say ‘yes’ to the invitation, anyway. 

So he says, “Sure. Yeah. That sounds like a very nice thing to do.” 

“His car isn’t working. At least, Sally told me as much. And the buses don’t run on Christmas. So you’d have to pick him and bring him over here.” 

“Fine,” Louis says, even though being in a small, secluded space with Harry sounds even less ‘fine’ that sitting across from him at family Christmas dinner. 

“Wonderful. Would you like to do the inviting?” Her voice has taken on a teasing note now. Louis doesn’t like it one bit. 

“No, mom. You’re in charge of the food- you should do the inviting.” 

A beat passes and then another. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, darling?” 

“Of course,” Louis lies. 

~ 

_3:02pm_

Louis arrives at Starbucks a few minutes early, so he’s sitting at a table by the entrance waiting when Samantha arrives. Here, in amidst the bustle of holiday coffee drinkers, she seems to sink in on herself, almost disappearing into the fancy red wool coat she’s wearing. 

“Samantha,” he calls, waving to her. 

When she sees Louis, she sends him a relieved smile and hurries over. 

“What did you do on your snow day?” Louis asks, as they step into line. The heavy hitting questions about her quitting can wait. 

She pushes a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. “A group of us went sledding. It was really cold.” 

“I went sledding, too,” Louis tells her. 

She arches a brow. “Really? My mom always gives the excuse that grown-ups can’t sled because they’re more breakable than kids. She lies about everything. So dramatic.” 

Louis laughs. “Your mom’s a little older than I am. And-” he reaches around to rub his shoulder “-I am _way_ more sore than I ever remember being as a kid.” 

Samantha rolls her eyes. 

Once they have their hot chocolates and are settled into the big leather chairs by the store’s fireplace, Louis turns to the matter at hand. “What’s going on, Samantha? Your mom told me that you want to quit the pageant.” 

Samantha sets her cup on the raised brick hearth. “She told me that I had to tell you in person, if I really didn’t want to do it.” She meets his eyes and there’s an edge to her voice that Louis doesn’t quite recognize. “So, here I am. To tell you that I’m quitting. I’m sorry.” 

Her gaze drops again. She’s inspecting her fingernails. 

“Why? I can’t believe that this is about the Narrator part. You’re better than that. And you make a great Mary. You really impressed me with how carefully you’ve been thinking through and practicing your role.” 

She swallows and her lower lip trembles. “So.” The word comes out forced. “I was kind of, um, bullshitting you about that. I mean, I don’t think that Mary would be happy. But.” Her face collapses in pain and she buries it in her hands. 

“My grandma,” Samantha whispers. “She um.” 

“She’s always sitting in the front row at your performances. With the big video camera that all the other parents complain about.” 

She hiccups out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s her. That _was_ her.” 

“Oh, Samantha.” 

“She died a few weeks ago. It was, yeah, a while ago now? But she and Lucy were friends and she begged Lucy for me to have the part of Mary even though Lucy wanted me to be the Narrator. She was pretty sick, my grandma, and she, just,” Samantha hiccups once and then dissolves into tears. 

Louis pats her on the shoulder. He has no idea what to say. He sort of wants to cry, too. 

Samantha looks up again. “She really wanted to see me be Mary before she died. Mary was, like, her favorite character in the whole Bible. Mary’s actually my middle name because Grandma chose it.” 

“It’s really hard to lose someone who cares so much about you. I’m so sorry. But I’m not sure I understand why don’t you want to be Mary?” 

Samantha gazes at him with wide wet eyes. “I do. I do want to be Mary. It’s just every time I get up on stage to do my lines, I think about how my grandma won’t be there to see me and I want to cry.” 

Louis takes a deep breath. “That hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing that someone who should be there, cheering you on, who has _always_ been there to cheer you on, that they won’t be there-“ 

“Not because she doesn’t want to- she _did_ want to. She can’t, you know?” Tears streak down Samantha’s face. 

Louis nods. “I know. I lost one of my biggest cheerleaders this fall, too.” 

Samantha wipes at her cheek, streaking her make-up. “You did?” 

“Lucy- I’m mean Miss Tinsley, who used to direct the pageant. She came and saw every show I was ever in. Even after I’d grown up. Even when they were hours away. She was the first person to really see me as an actor.” Louis sips his own hot chocolate and waits. 

“Doesn’t it make you sad, then? To do this without her? My heart actually feels like it _hurts_. Maybe it’s cause I’m a kid, or a girl or something.” She fusses with one of her hoop earrings and then wipes at her nose. 

“No. I feel like that, too, sometimes,” Louis admits. He does. He knows the exact chest-splitting sensation she’s speaking about and the tears that often come with it. “And I’ve cried. A lot. I might’ve even shed a tear earlier this afternoon, looking through old photo albums from past pageants.” 

Samantha watches him and he realizes she’s waiting for him to say more, to explain why he’s still directing the show. 

“I’m doing this for her. Your mom and Pastor Harry would probably tell you something different. I don’t know about God or Heaven or angels, but I do think people live on. They live on _in us_. Lu- Miss Tinsley will live as long as the pageant lives on. Your grandma’s love of Mary can live on through your amazing performance.” Louis realizes his heart is pounding. He has no idea if he’s said the right thing or not. No one at teaching school prepared him for this kind of conversation. 

Samantha tilts her head. “Do you think she might be watching, like as a ghost or from Heaven?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. He doesn’t. “But you might want to give playing Mary a try, just in case?” 

Samantha’s voice cracks, as she murmurs, “I don’t want to disappoint her.” 

“You won’t. You couldn’t. No matter what you decide- she was very proud of you and she always will be.” 

~


	22. Chapter 22

_Friday, December 23_

_6:27pm_

Harry turns the gift over in his hands, inspecting it. There’s a small chip on one side, but other than that, it’s in pretty good condition. Still, Harry isn’t sure about whether or not it’s an appropriate offering. Is it too personal? Not personal enough? Too Christmasy for a birthday gift? It’s not expensive- didn’t cost him a penny. Actually, maybe it’s not even Harry’s to give. 

And what if it makes Louis cry instead of smile? 

He sighs. Doesn’t matter. He knows that Louis should have it. And he knows that he wants to be the one to give it to him. 

He sets the gift on the table beside him, lights a candle, tears a sheet of cream paper out of his prayer journal, and begins to write. Harry knows how he feels and he knows what he wants. The words flow from the tip of his pen, a steady stream of ink, letter after letter darting forward to fill the page. 

He reads the words back to himself. They’re not the most poetic he’s written, but he thinks he’s made himself clear. He reads it again, this time trying to imagine he’s as angry and hurt as Louis had been yesterday. 

Biting his lip, he decides to add a postscript, just to make certain Louis _gets_ it. Only then, does he close his eyes and allow himself a small smile and a brief hopeful daydream of the kiss Louis will give him so very soon. 

Maybe. 

With a flourish, Harry signs the note and tucks it inside the gift. He digs the wrapping paper out of his closet- all he’s got is a Christmasy gold- and folds it awkwardly around the present. He should have bought a box. Or maybe a bag. 

~

_7:45pm_

Harry spritzes on his cologne and runs his hands through his hair, the ruffled sleeves of his shirt tickling his ears and cheek. He’s not sure if Louis will be happy to see him, but he hopes, at least, that he’s not _unhappy_. 

Liam invited him and arranged for Zayn to pick him up, so it’s likely that Louis knows he’s coming and hasn’t protested. As far as Harry knows, Liam and Zayn are Louis’ best and primary friends- probably most of the party. 

He heads downstairs, gift in hand.

~

_8:10pm_

Zayn still hasn’t arrived. Harry knows because he’s standing in the entryway to his building, _waiting_. The security guard is almost certainly judging Harry. And Harry can’t blame him. Harry appears to have been stood up. 

A text pings through from an unknown number. He expects it to be from Zayn whose number he does not have and Liam _still_ has not sent him, maybe an ‘on my way’ or ‘totally forgot sorry.’ Instead, he reads, _Harry, I wanted to invite you to our family’s Christmas dinner. I hope you’ll come._

Harry frowns at the text. Could be _anyone_ from the church. Just as he’s composing his reply, a second text appears from the same number. _I understand you are without a car? Louis said he’d be happy to pick you up._

He double checks in his old messages and, yes, it’s from the same number that’d texted to make sure that he and Louis were alive and safe during the snow storm. Jay. He finds himself smiling. If Louis had told his mom that he’d be ‘happy’ to pick Harry up, he probably won’t be ‘unhappy’ to see him in a few minutes, or whenever Zayn shows up. 

He texts back, _Thank you. I’d be honored to be there._

~

_8:50pm_

Zayn pulls up in front of Harry’s apartment complex at 8:50pm- that’s _an hour_ later than Liam had told him to expect. Harry had to make _two_ trips back to his apartment to pee (thanks to the forty of beer he’d picked up on his way home and downed on his way out the door, the first time). 

Zayn greets Harry with an easy smile. He does not apologize for being late. Nodding, at the gift in Harry’s lap, he says, “A gift, eh? Louis doesn’t get many of those at this shindig.” 

Harry feels himself flush. That’s not what Liam’s text had said. Or, at least, he _thought_ Liam told him to bring a present. 

“You just feel bad because _you_ didn’t get him anything,” Harry guesses. 

“I didn’t but I don’t feel bad about it. I don’t like going to the stores this time of year. I hate Christmas, the shopping and gifting part of it, especially. And not just because I’m not Christian. I hate it because it’s less a Christian holiday and more a Capitalism holiday.” They’re waiting at a stop light and Zayn takes a moment to shoot Harry a scowl. 

“True. Jesus would have been disgusted,” Harry says, because as much as he loves _every_ part of the holiday, Zayn’s distaste is not unfounded. 

“You’re alright, Harry Styles. Louis could have done a lot worse,” Zayn allows, turning back to the road. “And, for the record, Louis does like presents.” 

Liam answers the door to Louis’ apartment. He’s wearing an apron, an oven mit, and a smile. He greets Zayn with a kiss on the cheek. It’s all very domestic. Especially in contrast to the scene behind him. 

Zayn disappears in the fray, and it really is a fray, and Liam says, “Harry, welcome. The cookies just came out of the oven. Come on in.” 

Louis’ apartment is small enough that there’s not really much more ‘in’ Harry can come. The place is packed with people. Beautiful people, too. Young and happy, with perfect hair and makeup, drinking out of wine glasses. 

Harry ransacked all of Louis’ cabinets for breakfast only yesterday. The man did not own _stemware_. Harry would bet his life on it. Where did it come from? Was this party a Bring Your Own Fancy Wine Glass party? How had Liam told him to bring a present (which, Harry notes, his is the _only_ gift in sight), but had failed to mention stemware?

“Louis’ a popular guy,” Liam says, elbowing Harry. “Between our high school friends, the teachers he works with, his community theater people, and the few friends that drove in from New York, this party is always a blast.” 

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Harry wonders. 

“Like I said, Louis’ done this the last couple of years at the hotel down the street and it’s been so fun. We’ll go there soon, but Louis wanted people to see his new place. The bar in the hotel does karaoke every Friday night. This time of year it’s pretty empty- sort of feels like we rented out. Plus, you know Louis, always complaining about Christmas ruining his birthday. People start to feel bad.” 

“He’s never- I learned that his birthday was Christmas Eve _from you_.” Harry had not realized that he was signing up for a whole night of partying and out on the town, no less. 

“Harry Styles!” It’s Niall Horan. From fucking Divinity School. Harry’d been on his Facebook page _today_ , trying to figure out whether or not he’d be in State College and up for company over the holiday week. He hadn’t seen even a hint that he was heading into _Harry’s_ neck of the woods that very evening. 

But here he is, in Louis’ apartment, no more than a few feet away from Harry, drinking beer out of a beautiful glass mug. Harry feels like he’s stepped into an alternate universe. 

“Niall Horan,” Harry says. “You’re alive.” 

“You liked all sixteen photos I posted yesterday of our campus ministry’s Finals All Night House Music and Study Party. You knew I was alive, you weirdo,” Niall says. “And you watched the video I uploaded on Snapchat this morning.” 

“I’m not stalking you,” Harry explains. “I keep track of everyone.” 

Niall barks out a laugh and claps Harry’s shoulder. “I bet you do. Let’s get you a drink.” 

In the corner beside Louis’ trashcan sits a box of brand new stemware and Niall lifts a glass from the top of it. “You drink red, if I remember right.” 

Harry nods and reaches around to scratch the back of his neck. “Have you seen, um. Have you seen the birthday boy?” 

Niall’s eye catches on the present in Harry’s hand. “Oh my god,” Niall says. “You’re dating Louis. Or trying to. _That’s_ how you know him. I couldn’t figure it out. Thought maybe the two of you had hit off at a local karaoke night.” 

“I don’t do karaoke,” Harry informs him, swirling the red wine around in the bottom of his glass and sniffing lightly. With all the fancy people around him, he feels like he should pretend to know what he’s doing. 

When he looks up, Niall’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“Not anymore,” Harry clarifies. “Karaoke isn’t professional. What would the kitchen ladies at St. Andrew’s say?” 

“A lot of them at karaoke night?” Niall asks. 

“I don’t know because I’ve never been,” Harry shoots back. 

Niall laughs again and reaches up to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “You need to relax. Drink up.” 

~ 

_10:58pm_

Harry’s on his sixth drink (if he counts the beer from earlier as one) and his twenty-second new friend. This new friend is tall and dark and handsome by all objective standards, with many large muscles. He’s also wearing leather pants and white tank top, which display said many large muscles to great advantage. 

He tells Harry that he knows Louis from New York City because they were roommates. Slept in the same bed sometimes. 

Harry hates him as much as you can hate someone you just made friends with. 

“How do _you_ know Louis?” the man asks. 

“I’m his-,” Harry’s about to say ‘pastor’ but he realizes that’s not quite right. Louis isn’t even a member of the church anymore. He doesn’t even believe in God. “Well, I’m not sure how you’d describe our relationship.” 

“Ah. Louis has a lot of those.” The man nods sagely. “Glad to find out that he hasn’t changed that much.” 

And, of course, that’s when Louis appears. Harry doesn’t know how he’s kept himself hidden in a such a small place. 

Maybe it’s because _he’s_ so small. 

“Happy Birthday!” Harry shouts in greeting. He’s too loud. He should not be so loud. “I’m making friends with your friends.” 

“Hello, yes. I’m so glad to hear that. That’s just what I always wanted. The two of you to be friends,” Louis says, nodding. “You two have a lot in common. Shop at a lot of the same stores.” 

The other man gives Louis a confused look and then says, “I was just telling Harry here that I’m glad to know that you haven’t changed too much.” 

Louis beams at him and, yeah, Harry hates this guy. “How’s that?” 

“Still stringing helpless fools along,” the man says. 

“What?” Harry and Louis say at the same time. 

The man ignores the question, shaking his head. “Where’d you meet this one?” 

“We met at a funeral,” Louis says, at the same time Harry says, “Church.” 

“Classy,” the man says. Very judgy. Harry’s glad he hadn’t bothered to remember his name. He’s back to twenty-one new friends- this one’s out. “I’m going to go finish off the vodka in the kitchen and then I think we’re heading down the street.” 

Louis does not watch him go. No, his attention is all on Harry. 

Someone bumps into Louis from behind and he places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, leaning heavily into him. Just for a moment. 

“Wait. So. _You’re_ being strung along?” Louis squints up at Harry, eyes hazy with liquor. He pokes his own chest. “I thought _I_ was being strung along.” 

“I didn’t mean- When I said-“ Harry struggles to explain the misunderstanding. But it’s _hard_ because his brain feels it’s been doused with a firehouse. He supposes it has, a firehose filled with wine. 

“I didn’t mean to string you along,” he says, finally. “I want us to be together.” Someone behind Louis laughs loudly. 

“What?” Louis asks. 

Harry hands his gift over to Louis. “I wrapped it myself.” 

“What’s this?” Louis asks. 

“It’s a present. For you.” Harry gulps the rest of his wine down. 

A familiar looking blonde woman wanders over and wraps an arm around Louis’ waist. “Oooh! A present!” 

She meets Harry’s eyes. “You’re the pastor! Mom showed me a picture of you. I’m Lottie.” 

“Louis’ sister,” Harry realizes. “From Facebook.” 

“I’m in LA, actually.” Her hair floats around her head as she shakes it and Harry’s eyes catch on Louis’ thumb slipping between tape and paper. He reaches out, laying a hand on Louis’ arm. 

“Wait,” he says. “It’s sort of private.” 

Louis wiggles his brows and moves his face close to Harry’s. “ _Private_ , huh? Changed your mind about us?” 

“Oh my god. Mom was _right._ I told her she was making unfounded assumptions about you two- that my own brother would _tell_ me if he had a boyfriend- but _she was right_. You two are so together that he’s bought you a fucking _sex_ gift for your birthday.” 

Her eyes sparkle and Harry can tell that she wants that for her brother, wants him to have someone, maybe even Harry, to share sexy things with. 

Harry bites his lip. 

“I was _joking_ , Lottie.” Louis’ face is pink. Maybe from embarrassment. Maybe from alcohol. Harry is ashamed that he does not know which. He should know which. If he’s to live up to Louis’ family’s boyfriendly expectations. 

Louis weighs the gift in his hand. “This cannot be from the sex website.” He meets Harry’s eyes. “Can it?” 

_The sex website?!_

Oh _god. Oh_ fuck. Louis knows about his _internet behavior._ How does he-

Louis yelps and Harry realizes his fingertips are digging into Louis’ arm. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, at the same time as Louis, smilingly hopefully, says, “So, yes, it is?” 

Harry licks his lips.“I just- I think it would be better if you waited till your actual birthday to open it.” 

“Harry,” Zayn materializes out of thin air. He’s wearing his coat and holding Harry’s. “I’m ready to head home. Liam’s threatening to make me do karaoke at the bar, so I’m distracting him with… other things. Let’s go.” 

“What? I like karaoke,” Harry admits. “I want to do karaoke. It’s been _too long_ since I’ve done karaoke.” 

“Let him _stay_ ,” Liam presses. Harry realizes that he’s been wrapped around Zayn the whole of their conversation, his face all but buried in Zayn’s neck. “It’s for the _best_.” 

Zayn’s eyes narrow. He’s looking at Louis. Who is frowning. Why is Louis frowning? It’s his _birthday_. “I think we’d better go. Say goodbye, Harry.” 

“Goodbye, Harry,” Harry says and then cracks up. 

~


	23. Chapter 23

_Friday, December 23_

_11:05pm_

And just like that Harry and Liam and Zayn disappear. 

Lottie leans her head on Louis’ shoulder. “That new guy is _much_ better for Liam than you are. First of all, he’s not letting him anywhere near the karaoke machine.” 

“Liam has a great voice,” Louis protests, offended on Liam’s behalf. “The best voice. Liam could be everything I couldn’t. He make it on Broadway. He could be a popstar. He could be Justin Bieber. Or Drake! We’d call him ‘Liam Chain.’”

“ _Liam_ is a microphone hog. I like to hear you, sometimes. And other people, too.” She smiles. She has a very good point. Louis does like karaoke. 

“Let’s go to the bar.” 

Louis looks down at the package in his hands - it’s gold with a shiny silver bow. Louis already has an idea of what it might be and he doesn’t want to wait to till tomorrow to open it. 

He glances at the clock on the wall. Still not quite his birthday yet, but it will be by the time they return from karaoke. He promises himself that he’ll open it then. And maybe use it. In private, just like Harry said. 

~ 

_Saturday, December 24_

_10:16am_

Louis wakes the next morning with a warm body beside him. His room smells like liquor and piss and perfume. 

He groans and rolls off the bed and onto the floor, pulling the comforter with him. 

“Louis Tomlinson, if you don’t let me use the toilet first, I am going to post every single video I have of you from last night onto Facebook.” Lottie sounds surprisingly awake in comparison to how absolutely fucked Louis feels. 

“I think I might piss myself right here on the floor,” Louis tells her. His bladder aches, but so does every other part of him. 

“I’m not cleaning it up,” Lottie says, because she’s a terrible sister. 

“But it’s my birthday.” Seems like the least she could do. 

He listens to her feet padding toward the bathroom. They’re so loud and each step seems to vibrate across the floor and through his body.

He really might piss himself. 

“Speaking of which,” Lottie says. “You have presents.” 

Louis remembers the golden package from Harry. He’d wanted to open it last night before he’d gone to bed. He could have _used it_. But he really doesn’t remember much after leaving the apartment. He’d entered the bar to find a row of birthday shots waiting for him. 

He couldn’t turn down the alcohol. Not with everyone watching like that. 

But just as he’s prying his body up from where it’s stuck to the cold wood floor, Lottie continues, “At mom’s. She bought you way too many this year. I think in trying to make up for the fact that your birthday is so close to Christmas, she always buys you _more_ presents than she’d ever buy any of us.” 

“You’re wrong,” Louis informs her. Even if she might be half right about their mother, _most_ people only get him one gift, or no gifts. Not that he minds much anymore. 

Suddenly, Lottie, that angel of a girl, is standing over him, blocking out the light streaming into the room from between his curtains. The throb in his skull ebbs a little. 

“Come on, big brother. It’s almost time for your birthday lunch. Let’s go.” Then, the she-devil punctuates the statement with a couple claps of her hands and Louis’ head splits open again. 

~

_5:47pm_

Harry’s robe gleams black in the candlelight. Behind him, four rows of kids beam, faces flushed and costumes slightly askew. 

“We talk a lot about gifts. And this pageant- each of the kids you see up here, is a gift. Like Jesus, they’ve brought joy into the world tonight. So let’s give them and God one more grateful round of applause.” Harry says. 

The room bursts into applause. Someone wolf-whistles, probably Louis’ mom. 

“You can read a whole list of other thank you’s in the bulletin- to the director, the musicians and the parents without whom this pageant would not happened.” 

Louis squirms a little in his seat. He hates this part. He hopes that Harry doesn’t call him up to receive a gift or to be part of some other embarrassing ritual. 

“Christmas is a happy time when we gather as a family of God to celebrate Jesus’ birthday. But, as with all family parties, we can’t help but remember who _isn’t_ here with us. And so this year, and I’m sure for many years after this, we remember the wonderful gifts of life and love that Lucy Tinsley, thirty year organist and children’s choir director, brought to this place. And we know that she, like all our loved ones who have passed, is celebrating Jesus’ birth with us from her place in heaven.” 

Louis notices the tears streaming down Samantha’s cheeks and pooling around her mouth, which is tipped up in a smile. She’s looking up at the rafters. 

Harry continues, “Will you pray with me… ” 

~ 

_6:03pm_

Louis stands at the end of the line of children at the back of the sanctuary, shaking the hands of the passing people. He keeps a close eye on the group as one by one they are snatched away by parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles. 

“Lucy would have been so proud of you.” The words come from a woman Louis only vaguely recognizes, but he appreciates the sentiment and smiles brightly at her. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m one of Ruth’s nieces. My two little ones were in the show. I really appreciate you taking over for her. I know she thought so highly of you.” The woman takes one of Louis’ hands in both her own and squeezes. Then, she leans in, “Knowing her interfering nature, I _suspect_ that she was trying to set you up with Pastor Harry. She thought he was _such_ a cutie.” 

“He is,” Louis tells her without thinking. 

She throws her head back with a cackle of laughter, as she walks towards what must be her two little angels. “Thanks again, Louis,” she calls over her shoulder. 

Harry materializes beside Louis. He’s still wearing his robes, which surprises Louis. It’s really hot in the small room behind the sanctuary. 

“You survived. You still have a job,” Louis says with a forced smile. Harry showed up for him last night, and with a gift, but he’s not exactly sure where they stand. 

“Only because of your help,” Harry tells him. He’s standing very close. “Thank you so much. I really couldn’t have done this without you.” 

“No,” Louis admits. “You couldn’t’ve.” 

Harry doesn’t fight him. Instead, he licks his lips. “Hey, um so.” He stops. 

“Yes?” Louis prompts. 

“Happy birthday,” Harry says. “I texted you. And told you last night. And um.” 

“Spit it out.” 

“Did you open my present?” He tugs at his lower lip with his teeth as he waits for Louis’ answer. 

Louis deflates. “I- honestly, no. Woke up late and then had to rush to spend the day with the family. Birthday stuff, you know. And then this. I wanted to. I meant to open it last night.” 

“Okay,” Harry nods, but Louis can see that it is not okay. Harry’s eyes are filling with tears and his lip will surely start to bleed if he keeps at it the way he is. 

“I’ll open it as soon as I get home.” 

“Do that. Right away. Do not pass go. _Please._ ” Harry’s eyes are pleading and Louis wonders, for a moment, if he’s misjudged what’s in the package. The wrapping hadn’t left much to the imagination. 

“I promise.” 

Harry nods. “Good.”

~

_11:40pm_

Louis doesn’t break his promise. It’s just, his mom invites him back to her place for cake after the show and he and Lottie get to talking. She’d only flown in the afternoon before and the two of them haven’t had time to really catch up. 

Compared to his life here as a teacher, her life in LA seems so glamorous, exactly what he’d been hoping for when he’d moved to New York, parties with the moderately famous, fashionable clothing and make-up, lots of boys. 

The only difference is that she’s been able to make it happen, find some measure of success. 

He’s surprised to realize that he’s fascinated by her lifestyle, but he isn’t jealous. He likes his job a lot - it provides more stability and free time than hers- and he’s happy to be so close to his family. His loft is not a forever, family home- especially because he misses his cat- but it suits him for now and he can pay for it, without roommates. 

Now, back in the loft, which _still_ smells slightly rancid, like sour alcohol, his fingertips play at the paper covering Harry’s gift. His stomach turns over. Why had Harry been so eager for him to open it? 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and forcibly lowers his expectations. Harry has not given him a wedding ring for Christmas, nor tickets for them to fly to California together to meet his parents. 

The contents of the package is already apparent from its odd shape and heavy weight. 

Louis peels the paper off, leaving a golden pile of trash on the table. The present is what he expects and it isn’t. 

He expected a Christmas mug but he didn’t expect it to be one he recognized. It’s midnight blue, emblazoned with a big white star. 

He’s always thought of it as Lucy’s Christmas Pageant Mug. She used to say she drank so much tea it because it kept her hands warm in the cold weather. But Louis now suspects she had other reasons (namely, exhaustion and impatience). 

Louis turns it around in his hands several times. He can still picture her shaking her head at something ridiculous he’s said and lifting it to her lips. 

Suddenly, Louis’ thirsty for a cup of tea. It sounds like just the thing before bed, but as he’s about to stick the cup under the faucet, he sees that there’s something inside it. 

A note. He sticks two fingers in and pulls out the folded paper. 

Carefully, he lays it flat on the counter and reads. 

_Dear Louis,_

_I thought you’d like this mug because you were so fascinated with mine and because, as you probably know, it was Lucy’s favorite at the church. James said she couldn’t be parted with it during Christmas season. It has the Star of Bethlehem on it, but I think you can drink out of it any time of year._

_I also wanted to apologize. I know I’ve been really confusing, maybe even a little cruel. Honestly, that’s only because I’ve been confused. I really like you, but I also really like my job. I talked with James about it a bit and, also, my real boss. (I mean God.) As far as I can tell, they’re in agreement: you and I are good together. We deserve a chance, whatever the risks. (And, to quote a wise person I know, I need to be the one to ‘open the door’ and make it happen.) _

_Christmas is about growing and spreading love. And I don’t want to freak you out by jumping in too fast- well, I sort of do, but I won’t- so I’ll just say, I think we could be great at growing and spreading love. Together._

_If you’re still willing to give us a try- despite all the pastor’s baggage I bring- I’d love for you to meet me at the end of the eleven o’clock service in the bell tower at the church. You can help me ring in Christmas._

_Yours,_

_Harry_

_P. S. Maybe we can spend the night together- get started on all that love stuff, if you know what I mean. ;) ;)_

Louis glances at his phone. 11:50. Well, fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was kind of short and filler, i know. 
> 
> but that's really good timing, i swear, because you're all gonna be so busy today reading [elsi_bee's new fake relationship christmas fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8925478) that you won't even have time or energy to be nervous about louis missing the ringing of the bells and breaking harry's heart.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> afraid that family will pull me away any minute, so i'm posting this before answering any comments but i can't wait to send you all my love soon!

_Saturday, December 24_

_11:55pm_

Harry isn’t sure if it’s appropriate to back out of Christmas dinner with a text message. But he can’t see any other way to do it. 

Because if Louis opened Harry’s gift, read his letter, and still isn’t _here_ , still hasn’t called or texted his regrets - well, then Harry’s fucked. Much better off alone than sitting across from a man he’s falling in love with but who thinks he’s full of shit. 

He shivers and draws his robes tighter around himself. It’s cold up here in the tower. He closes his eyes and listens carefully. He can only just barely hear echoes from the service below and he needs to be paying attention so that he doesn’t miss his cue- the opening notes of Joy to the World. 

He’s startled by the sound of feet. Coming up the stairs. Quickly. Drawing closer. And closer. 

He opens his eyes to see Louis in grey sweatpants and an oversized blue sweatshirt, the sleeves drawn down over his hands. He’s not wearing a coat. Harry looks down. Or shoes. He’s in snow-covered, navy slippers.

“I just opened your gift,” Louis says, gasping. “Just now. I’m sorry if I’m later than you expected. I would have come earlier.” 

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it. There are snowflakes in Louis’ hair. 

“You could have put on boots,” Harry says.

A chord rises up from the organ, bold and bright. “It’s Christmas,” Louis says and Harry nods, pulling down on the rope beside him. 

The clang of the bell rattles the whole tower, startling Harry, his shoulders and arms rising to cover his ears. 

He did not expect it to be that powerful. 

To Louis, he shouts, “I don’t like loud noises.” He pulls the cord again. 

Louis laughs. “Why,” he shouts back, “did you volunteer to do this if you didn’t like loud noises?” 

Harry shrugs and then beckons Louis closer. Louis comes to stand before him. 

Harry leans forward and lips against Louis’ ear, says, “I thought it would be romantic.” 

Harry feels Louis’ laughter vibrate through both of them. He likes its soft buzz better than that of the clanging of the bell above them. It’s reassuring. He takes a risk- he still can’t be sure that this is what Louis wants- and wraps an arm around Louis’ waist. 

Louis doesn’t pull away. No, he turns closer so that now it’s his mouth resting just below Harry’s ear, open, in a soft kiss.

Actually, Harry realizes, he’s not kissing Harry. He’s _humming_. _Joy to the world._

Harry’s heart dives straight down, careening past the edge of the board, whooshing through open air before landing with barely a splash in the waiting pool of Louis’ arms. He’d mentioned ‘love’ in his letter to Louis and now he’s certain that it was not too strong a word. 

Harry begins to hum, too. They’re not quite with the organ- Harry blames the odd rhythm of the bell- but he doesn’t mind. The powerful lift of the music carries them, anyway. 

It _is_ Christmas, yet again. 

When the organ has finished its final notes, Harry lets the bell’s heavy cord drop to the wooden floor. 

“Thank you for the mug,” Louis murmurs, tilting his head back so that he can look into Harry’s face. “Where did you find it?” 

“It’s been on my desk since the beginning of December. It isn’t a very good birthday present. It should have belonged to you in the first place.” The urge to nuzzle into Louis (not _only_ because it’s cold) is almost overwhelming, but Harry forces himself to let go of him altogether and take a step back. “I can get you another. And one for Christmas, too.” 

Louis purses his lips. “Yeah, another _one_ at least. People who care about me know better than to try the two-for.” 

“I only got the one because, well, I didn’t know if you’d want a second. I didn’t know if you’d react well to the first,” Harry’s voice sounds small in the loud quiet that the bell and the organ have left behind. 

Louis steps forward again and presses his forehead to Harry’s cheek. “I reacted well. I loved it. I want it. All of it. The mug. You. An open door. Love.” 

“Even though I’m a pastor and that makes things infinitely more complicated, not least of all because my life will always revolve around something you don’t even believe exists, but also because I come with a whole nosy bunch of people who- I swear, Louis, I will do everything in my power to stop this, but sometimes I won’t be able to- sometimes these people will be way more up in your business than is appropriate. Even though there’s all that?” 

“I’m a middle school teacher. And an actor. I come with my own baggage,” Louis tells him. 

“That _doubles_ the baggage. That doesn’t lessen it,” Harry says it with a laugh. But it’s a nervous laugh. They’re not _there_ , yet. 

“I want to be with you, Harry, and I don’t want it to be a secret, either. Things feel easy between us. We have so much fun together. We understand each other. Honestly, I never really thought I’d be the kind of person to want a serious boyfriend. And I definitely never thought I’d be the kind of person who wanted someone to cuddle with on the couch or someone to cook breakfast with or someone to bring home to my family for Christmas dinner. But I do. And the someone I want is you.” 

Harry licks his lips. “I want that, too. I want _you_ , too.” 

A smile splits Louis’ face. Harry finds himself suddenly short of breath. Louis is _so_ beautiful. 

“In that note you wrote me,” Louis drawls, still smiling. “You said something about getting started with the ‘love’ _tonight._ ” 

Harry nods. “Yeah, about that.” He bites his lip. “I’m kind of counting on you for a ride home.” 

Louis laughs. “Of course you are.” 

Louis’ eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning out on his cheek bones. In a moment, Harry will lean forward to kiss him, a real kiss, a kiss that _means_ something, something that they both understand. 

But before he does so, he lifts his gaze heavenward, and offers a silent, _thank you, God_.

Rosa said Christmas was all about ‘love’ coming down. As far as Harry can tell, sometimes that ‘love’ looks like a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger. Sometimes it looks like choir of elementary school angels, bumbling through the hand motions to Silent Night. Sometimes it looks like an invitation to gather round a family table. 

And sometimes it looks like this: a man, offering his heart, though Harry’s done nothing to deserve it. 

Harry silently promises God that the two of them _will_ bring love into this world. They’re gonna make it- the sweaty, naked gasping kind of love. And they’re gonna grow it- the welcoming home and heavy laden table kind of love. 

Louis’ lips are cool and chapped against Harry’s own and a small sound resonates from the back of his throat as they meet. Harry’s hands find his waist and slip under his sweatshirt, meeting the hot skin of his back. He shivers under Harry’s touch. 

This night is quiet around them. No wind. No voices. Even the dull echo of the bell that had been ringing in Harry’s ears has gone silent. All he can hear is the slick press of their lips and the soft catches of their breath. 

Louis breaks the kiss, but remains close, their noses brushing. Lips not but a breath away from Harry’s own, he whispers, “You’re incredible.”

Harry hums and leans forward, meaning to kiss him again. But he tilts his head and Harry’s lips meet his cheek instead of his lips. 

“You’re incredible, _but_ -“ he continues “-your hands are still freezing.” He reaches around and pulls Harry’s hands out from beneath his shirt. Taking them between his own, which are remarkably warmer, he begins to rub some heat back into them. 

“My limbs are very long. It’s a lot of work to pump blood all the way out the ends of them,” Harry explains. 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Is that it?” 

Harry nods, even though it isn’t. It’s probably due to poor circulation, worsened by the fact that he hasn’t been to yoga in nearly a month. (The New Year and a whole bundle of resolutions are only days away.) 

Louis drops Harry’s hands and lifts his own to Harry’s face. His thumbs press into Harry’s cheeks. “Love these dimples,” he says. “Wish I could see more of them.” 

“You can,” Harry tells him. “You will.” 

Harry moves forward again, his lips grazing Louis’ cheek and nipping at Louis’ lips. Louis nips right back and suddenly Harry’s filled with a sharp, sweet champagne giddiness. 

“It’s _Christmas_ ,” Harry says, pressing a line of kisses along Louis’ jaw. 

Louis laughs. 

“Louis,” Harry says, more urgently. “ _It’s Christmas_.” Louis laughter deepens, rippling through both of them and he nods, as Harry begins to pepper his face with kisses. 

It’s Christmas and Louis is _here_ and they rang it in _together_. 

Aloud, Harry wonders. “It’s _Christmas_. And _you’re_ here. And you’re my _boyfriend_!” 

He freezes. “Sorry. I guess we haven’t really, _formally_ clarified...” 

Louis is still and silent against Harry, but Harry thinks he can feel the upturn of his lips. He _thinks_ Louis is still smiling. 

“I mean, _will_ you be my boyfriend?” 

Louis pinches Harry’s butt, through many (too many!) layers of fabric. “Of course, my answer is ‘yes.’ I already said I wanted all the ‘love’ stuff. That’s why I’m here.” 

“Always good to DTR,” Harry reasons, backing Louis up until he’s pressed against the brick wall of the tower. He places his hands flat on either side of Louis’ face, cold, rough mortar scratching his palms. This time, they come together with more force, matching the hunger that’s beginning to burn low in Harry’s belly. 

Louis begins to unzip Harry’s robe, hands eagerly searching for what’s beneath. The black fabric slides off Harry’s shoulders and onto the ground. 

Louis stills, taking him in. “Reindeer. On your suit,” he laughs. “Oh my god, you _are_ Christmas’ slave.” 

He doesn’t see it yet. But he will. Harry’s sure of it. 

“Yeah. I like the colors.” Actually, Harry likes the whole damn suit. Niall had sent him a link to it, joking that it looked like the kind of thing he would wear. 

Harry ordered it immediately. 

“Green and-“ Louis’ jaw drops. _Now_ he sees it. “Have you been wearing that-“ 

“All evening. Under my robes.” Harry nods and wiggles his eyebrows. “You like it?” 

“Do I like your red and green Reindeer fucking- like straight up _fucking_ \- suit? Hell, yeah, I like it.” 

“It’s a little naughty,” Harry admits. 

“ _You’re_ a little naughty,” Louis laughs. He’s not wrong. 

Harry bites his lip and looks Louis up and down. “I am.” 

He drops to his knees. The cold of the wood floor seeps through the wool to his skin. He relishes the ache of it and leans forward to nose the outline of Louis’ cock through his sweats. 

Not fully hard yet, but Harry’s not deterred. He pulls down the elastic on Louis’ hip, just a fraction and touches his mouth to the skin there.

Harry keeps the kiss light at first, just a teasing press of lips. Louis squirms against the wall, not toward Harry’s mouth, but not away from it either. Harry takes the motion as encouragement, and opens the kiss, allowing his tongue a swipe. Louis’ skin tastes clean, like soap, with just a hint of his natural musk tickling Harry’s nose. 

Harry tests the area with his teeth and Louis groans, loud enough that the sound echoes a little off the bell beside them. 

“I want to give you a second present,” Harry rasps. His voice is already shot. _Fuck_. 

“Yeah?” Louis grates out, his fingers reaching down to tangle in Harry’s hair. 

Harry nods and pulls the elastic down over Louis’ hips and freeing his cock. Harry blows out a harsh breath. It’s as beautiful as he remembers, large and heavy, now, beneath his fingers, and the most lovely pink he’s ever seen. 

He presses a soft kiss and then a little lick to the tip and Louis shudders. Harry smiles against the skin, pleased at the force of Louis’ reaction. 

Except that then Louis’ hands are coming down underneath Harry’s armpits and pulling him back to his feet. 

Harry pushes back from Louis’ embrace to stare at him. “What about my present? Don’t you want? Is it- Shit. I have a condom. I should have-“ 

Louis shakes his head. He’s smiling, but also he’s squatting slightly and reaching down to drag back up the sweats that pooled around his ankles. Harry’s not sure what’s going on. 

“No, I’m clean, I swear,” Louis says. “Got tested a few months ago after a scare with a hook-up at club. So I’m definitely clean. But I’m also _definitely_ freezing.” He tugs the sleeves of his sweatshirt back down over his hands and places his makeshift paws on Harry’s cheeks. “I’m sure you’re great, but I don’t know if I could keep it up.” 

“Really?” Harry asks. With Louis, he could probably keep it up in a blizzard. He could probably keep it up in the grassy median of a busy, downtown street during rush hour. Hell, with Louis, Harry could probably keep it up in the midst of the Apocalypse. Jesus himself - riding on a chariot of clouds raining down the fires of judgement- could not kill Harry’s boner for Louis. 

“Yes,” Louis nods. “It’s fucking _freezing_. I want a blow job and whatever else is on offer, but not _here_.” 

Harry tries not to be offended. “Let’s go back to my place,” he suggests. 

“My place is closer.” Louis’ hand reaches out to stroke Harry’s dick through the fabric of his suit pants. Closer sounds good. 

“But I want you in _my_ bed. Also, my kitchen is clean and my bathroom has a door.” 

Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s nose and squeezes his cock lightly. “Fair enough.” 

Louis sticks close to Harry’s back as they climb down the long flight of stairs back to the sanctuary. Once, he even steps on Harry’s heels in his haste to follow. 

The door shuts behind them with a loud clank and Louis mutters, “That has to be where the ghosts hang out. Another reason not to fuck up there.”

“I’m telling you,” Harry laughs. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

Through the big windows, Harry can see that it’s snowing outside, not hard, just a few big flakes floating on the midnight blue air. 

They walk quietly to Harry’s office, Louis flipping on as many light switches as he can find along the way. Harry drapes his robes over the back of his desk chair and picks up his bag. The manuscript for his Christmas sermon and tomorrow’s bulletin sit neatly on his desk. 

He still has another big day yet to come. 

Louis leads the way to the back door, Harry darting behind him, flipping off all of the lights he’d flipped on. 

Outside, the whole world, the blacktop, Louis’ car, the bushes that line the red brick building- it’s all been dusted in snow. 

Harry’s phone buzzes with a text message. Who would be texting _now_? He glances at it, reads it a second time, tries to open the screen, just to make sure of what he’s seeing, and in doing so, drops his phone into the snow. 

~


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS!

_Sunday, December 25_

_12:15am_

“So,” Harry says, climbing into the car. His phone is safe and dry and functional, thanks to a quick dive and wipe on Louis’ part. “Something not very chill is happening.” 

“Blue balls?” Louis asks, as he turns on the car. 

Harry laughs. “That too.” And then he adds, “Now _that_ could have been avoided, except _someone_ was too cold to have sex in the bell tower. My big romantic gesture, all for nothing.” 

“Cut that out. I’m here. You’re here. ‘Love’ is about to be- how did you frame it in your letter? ‘Brought into the world?’ Just wait five minutes. There’s no heat up there,” Louis protests. “ _My_ balls might have developed frostbite and then where would be? The emergency room, that’s where.” 

“I’ve told you my feelings about the emergency room, Louis. There are worse places to spend a night.” 

“On Christmas Eve? No, thank you. I’d much prefer to be making sweet, sweet love underneath a down comforter in well-heated bedroom.” 

“Have you ever actually had sex underneath a blanket? I know they do it the movies all the time, but that’s never worked well for me,” Harry comments. He’s biting his thumbnail. Louis’ never seen him do that before. 

“Hey,” Louis says, reaching over to smack his hand away from his mouth. “What’s going on? What’s the ‘not chill’ thing that you wanted to tell me about?” 

“I think,” Harry stops. “God. I could be wrong. Please don’t make fun of me if I’m wrong.” 

“Wrong about _what_?” Sometimes, Harry seems to have so much trouble just _spitting it out_. 

“I think my apartment might not be empty when we get there,” he says. 

“You _what?_ ” Louis erupts. The car skids to a stop. He could have made it through the yellow light, but he needed to turn in his seat and stare at Harry instead. “Are you being _robbed_? Did your neighbors text you?”

Louis sighs and leans back in his seat and shakes his head, not waiting for an answer to continue, “I would have told you not to move to this part of town. Sure you can get more bang for your buck rent-wise, but _at what cost_?” 

“I’m not being robbed,” Harry says. And then, “Shit. Could you imagine? On Christmas!” 

“Yes. I can imagine. That’s _exactly_ what I was imagining,” Louis says. “So who are we going to find in your apartment?” 

Harry’s thumbnail is in his mouth again. “It’s gonna be awkward. They don’t know about you.” 

“Who? Are you secretly _married?_ Ah! I knew this was too good to be true!” 

Harry laughs. Which is good. Louis didn’t really think that Harry was secretly married, but he’s relieved that even the suggestion is laughable to Harry. 

“I think,” Harry says. He’s delayed the telling long enough that they’re pulling into his parking lot. “That- yeah. Oh my _god_. Yep.” 

The only thing Louis notices out of place is an old Subaru with a giant red bow wrapped around it. 

“Wow. I didn’t know people actually bought each other cars for Christmas. That’s- wow,” Louis says. He thought that kind of thing only happened in car commercials. Unlike the vehicles in those advertisements, this car does not look shiny and new. It’s a few years old and a little worse for the wear. 

“Oh _my god.”_ He throws the door of Louis’ car open with a little more force than necessary. 

“What is going on?” Louis remembers to ask, but it doesn’t matter because Harry’s running toward the lobby, skidding and wobbling every few steps on the icy pavement. 

More slowly and much more carefully, Louis follows Harry inside. The lobby is empty except for the security guard. 

“Harry ran up the stairs. Wouldn’t even wait for the elevator,” the man says, with a small smile. “It’s here now. I bet you can beat him.” 

Louis nods his thanks and steps inside.

When he reaches Harry’s floor, Harry is nowhere in sight. Louis walks the few steps to his apartment- the one with the lighted wreath, Louis knows because he’d hung it- and knocks on the door. 

It opens before he even lowers his fist. 

“Honey! What-” A woman with long dark hair stands in the doorway, frozen. 

At the other end of the hall, the door to the stairwell creeks open. “Louis wait-“ 

“Louis,” the woman greets, face transformed. “The schoolteacher who rescued Harry! Your mom said we might find you here, but Harry never said...” 

“Um.” The woman’s eyes and smile are familiar, but he’s still not one hundred percent certain who she is. And he definitely does not know her name. 

“Mom,” Harry says from behind Louis and Louis can’t tell if he sounds pleased or horrified. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Don’t cuss at your mother,” Louis tells him, appalled. His mother would wash his mouth out with soap. She has, on multiple occasions. 

Harry’s mom- because apparently _that_ is who is in Harry’s apartment- pulls Louis into a side hug. “I knew I would like you.”

“Sorry, mom.” Harry blinks at the two of them. He does not look sorry. His brows are furrowed and his mouth is slightly open. He looks… puzzled. 

He can’t be as confused as Louis is, though. 

“I just really did not expect you. You said Robin was still having trouble with his knee.” 

“She’s a liar,” Robin shouts from the living room. “This couch is giving me back problems, though. Where did you find this thing?” 

Another woman appears in the entryway, this one younger, with bleach blonde hair. “I want a hug,” she says, launching herself past her mother and into Harry’s not quite ready arms. 

Louis glances down at his feet. His slippers are soaked all the way through. It’s very clear that he’s not going to be spending the night, not when Harry’s family has flown all the way here from California to be with him on Christmas. But maybe Harry can at least lend him shoes for the ride home. 

In fact, Louis thinks he remembers finding a nice pair of rain boots underneath Harry’s bed the other night. If he’s very stealthy, he can grab them and disappear with no one the wiser. 

While the Harry’s family passes around hugs and stories of an _endless_ car trip, Louis sneaks into Harry’s bedroom. Just as his fingertips hit rubber, he hears Harry’s voice, “What are you doing?” 

Louis pops his head out to smile at Harry. And Harry’s parents and Harry’s sister. Who are all now standing beside Harry’s bed, watching Louis struggle. 

Cool. 

“I’m just- grabbing one thing and then I’ll be out of your hair. Christmas is for family, I get it,” he says. 

“Guys, this is Louis,” Harry is saying, just as Louis frees the boot from beneath the bed. 

Except that what he frees is no boot. 

“Um.” He drops Harry’s dildo onto the carpeted floor. It lands with a heavy thud. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

While he assumes that Harry’s sanitary practices are top notch, he can’t very well offer them his hand _now_. 

“Merry Christmas, Louis,” Gemma says, laughing. 

“Why don’t we just-“ Harry’s mom is shaking her head “-ah- We can do introductions in the living room?” 

“Great idea,” Harry says, hauling Louis up from the floor. Into Louis’ ear, he hisses, “What the fuck?” 

“I wanted to borrow your rain boots. I remembered finding them under there,” Louis explains as Harry leads him out and flicks off the light. Louis stops Harry before they reach the living room. “If you want me to head out right away, I can. I know you haven’t seen your family in a long time and I don’t want to interrupt.” 

Harry frowns. Then, he narrows his eyes and smirks. “You can’t fool me. You’re just embarrassed about that little mishap.” 

Louis’ jaw drops. “I wouldn’t describe that dildo as ‘little.’ And I can talk to your parents after that. I face scarier parents all the time. It’s my _job_ to meet and impress terrifying parents.” 

With an exaggerated tilt of his head, Louis pushes past Harry and into the living room. 

Fuck it, he thinks as he offers his hand to Harry’s sister, he’s Harry’s boyfriend and he’s fully prepared to pass the family test. “I’m Louis, nice to meet you. Gemma, right?” 

Gemma ignores his hand, pulling him into a hug instead. “So glad you’re here. We were worried about little Harry being all alone on Christmas Eve.” Pulling back, she looks over Louis’ shoulder and waggles her eyebrows. “Apparently, you’ve been doing _fine_ on your own.” 

Harry’s mom opens her arms to Louis next and Louis accepts her embrace. “Thank you so much for keeping an eye on my son, spending time with and, _oh_ , driving him around, especially. I worry about him so much with all this snow and ice and church.” 

Harry’s step-dad nods at Louis. He does not offer his hand and Louis can’t blame him. 

“Speaking of driving in the snow,” Harry’s mom says, rubbing her hands together and waggling her eyebrows at Harry. In a flash of memory, Louis recognizes the gesture as one Harry mimics often. “We have a present for you!” 

“Mom, you can’t be serious about that,” Harry says. “It’s _way_ too much.” 

“Robin needed a new car, one that’s easier to get in and out of. And your transmission is shot. This thing has a so many miles on it- we couldn’t get more than a couple thousand bucks for it.” 

“Let me at least buy it from you,” Harry pleads. 

“Remember when I said we were working on a present still for your graduation and ordination? Well, here it is. It’s for Christmas and your birthday, too. We may not understand much about what you do or why you do it, but we know that you love it and that you do a lot of driving.” 

Harry doesn’t hesitate to wrap her in a tight hug, burying his face in her hair. Louis watches her hand rub several wide circles onto her son’s back. Part of Louis feels out of place intruding on a private moment with a family that’s not his, as though he’s walked on stage during the wrong scene, with no lines and no blocking, a distraction to the other actors and the audience. But another part of him, the part that’s become achingly familiar with Harry’s loneliness these past weeks, feels nearly overwhelmed with gratitude at being able to witness Harry’s happiness. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, voice hoarse. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe you guys are here. I can’t believe you brought me a car. I was not expecting any of it.” 

“I’ll just bet you weren’t,” Gemma says. She’s looking at Louis. When she catches Louis looking back, she winks. 

Harry’s mom is whispering into his ear, drawing out a laugh. Harry nods into her hair and says, “Thanks. That’s - I’m not surprised.” 

“Don’t worry, honey,” his mom says, now loud enough that everyone, even Louis (especially Louis?), can hear. “We won’t ruin your night with your boyfriend. We booked a couple of rooms at that hotel by the church. We just wanted to surprise you as soon as we got into town.” 

“If you’ll let us have the car one last time,” Harry’s step-dad says. He’s leaning on the couch and eyeing the door. “We’ll be on our way.” 

Louis wonders if he’s still thinking about the dildo. 

“We’ll be back tomorrow morning,” Harry’s mom says, voice hesitant and tears in her eyes, like she can’t bear to part with him again. 

They share a few more hugs and kisses in the apartment. And then he and Harry walk the group of them out to wait by the elevator. 

Gemma hugs Harry one last time. 

The elevator dings and she taps Harry’s lapel. “I love your suit.” 

Back in the apartment, Harry shuts the door and leans against it, sighing. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe they drove all the way out here.” 

“That’s crazy. I can’t believe they’re giving you a car.” Louis reaches up to toy with a button on Harry’s jacket. 

“I can’t believe you grabbed one of my dildos instead of one of my boots. How do you make that mistake?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe _you’ve been_ wearing this suit all night. During the pageant, too, I bet. Jesus, Harry.” 

Louis meets his gaze and the two of them share a long smile. 

Then, Harry bites his lip and narrows his eyes. 

“What?” Louis asks. 

In one smooth motion, Harry falls to his knees, places his hands on Louis’ hips, and tugs Louis’ sweats down to his ankles. He noses Louis’ cock through his black boxer briefs. “I can’t believe you’re still half-hard.” 

“I’m not,” Louis protests. But he is. Well, at least, now that Harry’s mouthing him through one thin layer of cotton he is. 

Harry’s hot breath skitters through his nerves, sparking a fire low inside him. Harry looks up, eyes wide and lips full and wet and pink. “How about that second present?” 

Louis reaches down to run his fingers through Harry’s curls. “Is this one for my birthday or-“ 

His words choke off because his underwear has dropped atop his sweats and the velvety heat of Harry’s mouth surrounds him. 

“Fuck,” he moans. And then, “oh,” because that’s Harry’s tongue, pressing along his length, a smooth slide, but not without pressure, not without friction.

Harry’s mouth stills, Louis tucked tight within it, and his hand comes up to toy with Louis’ balls, sending a pulsing trickle of sensation through Louis, from his ass, to his toes, to the tips of his fingers and the top of his head. 

His cock jumps, eager for _more_ , and Harry sheathes him tighter still. 

He fists his hands in Harry’s hair. “Come _on_ ,” he groans. “Move.” 

The stillness, the heat and pressure, it’s a lot, too much and not enough. Louis needs the tug and pull, the in and out. 

Finally, Harry obeys, his free hand coming up to guide Louis in and out of his mouth, fist wrapped hard around Louis’ base. He sucks and sucks and sucks. 

Louis can feel his hips trying to match Harry’s rhythm, the motion jarring Harry’s hand loose. It falls to his side as he begins to let Louis drive the pace. And drive it Louis does, hard and fast, racing toward his release. 

It’s rude, fucking Harry’s mouth like this, but in the moment, he can’t seem to help himself. He _needs_ it. 

So badly. 

He comes quickly, unable to give Harry more than a moment’s warning, just a hard twist of Harry’s curls, before he’s coming down the back of Harry’s throat, moaning with the force of his orgasm. 

As he returns to himself, he realizes that his legs are shaking and this hand is still knotted in Harry’s hair. He lets go of the sweaty locks and lets himself drop to the floor, blinking at Harry, who’s now eye level with him. 

“Happy birthday,” Harry says. 

“You’ve said,” Louis rasps. And then, “Sorry. Thank you. I’m a little-“ 

Harry’s got his own cock in hand, fist flying, eyes hot on Louis. 

“You look,” Harry grates. “Like a wet dream. Like so many of my wet dreams, recently. God, with your. _Fuck._ Eyelashes.” 

Harry’s breath hitches and his hips begin to twitch. 

“My eyelashes,” Louis rasps, reaching out lay his own hand atop Harry’s. “That’s what does it for you?” 

Harry allows Louis’ hand to fully replace his own as he leans back, eyes still open and fastened on Louis’ face. He nods. “Yeah. You do it for me.” 

And he can’t be lying because it only takes a few more short flicks of Louis’ wrist and he’s coming too, eyes finally closing as he whines out his orgasm, spilling come onto both of their legs and laps. 

His eyes open up, slowly. “It’s not _my_ birthday,” he says. 

Louis laughs, softly. “It doesn’t have to be. Any time you want, you let me know. I’d be happy to let you jerk off to my eyelashes.” 

Harry tilts his head, eyes soft as though Louis has said something incredibly romantic. “Thank you.” 

~

_Sunday, December 25_

_6:22am_

It’s freezing. Louis pulls his comforter more tightly around him, but he finds it doesn’t help. He’s still _so_ cold. 

He opens his eyes, blinking into the darkness dizzily. Something’s wrong. He’s not in his room at all. He’d stayed at Harry’s. Grumpiness settling around him like a cloud, he pats the comforter- which is _not_ down like his own- and rolls over toward Harry. 

Or, at least, toward where Harry _should_ be. Because Harry isn’t there and the space where Louis left him last night, mind rushing toward sleep, has gone cold. 

Granted, everything in the room is cold, even and especially Louis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops


	26. Chapter 26

_Sunday, December 25_

_6:20am_

Harry pulls the throw blanket more tightly around his shoulders and closes his eyes. The outline of the sermon stands out in bold script, all but emblazoned on the back of his eyelids. Still, he begins to murmur the points, one by one, aloud. 

“Harry?” 

The notes fall away. 

Louis stands in the doorway, arms wrapped around his bare body, shivering. “Do you have heat in this place?”

Louis voice is low and rough with sleep and it grazes over Harry’s skin. He breaks out in a fresh set of goosebumps. 

“Keep it down at night,” Harry explains. 

Louis frowns. “Is it night? Because it smells like you’ve made coffee.” 

Harry pushes up off the couch and wanders over to the thermostat. “Sorry,” he throws over his shoulder. “Been trying to save.” 

Louis grunts in reply and then, after a moment, says, “Also, what the fuck are you doing up before 7am anyway. And drinking _coffee_. It almost seems like you _want_ to be up this early.” 

Harry thumbs the heat up and, within moments, hears a thrum as it kicks on.“I can never sleep on Christmas.” 

Louis hums and when Harry turns back around he’s eying Harry’s mostly bare body and running a hand through his fringe.

“I think Santa already came,” Louis says, finally. 

Harry wiggles his eyebrows and rubs his palms together. “Oh, did he? Let’s see we can’t get him to come a second time.” 

A breathy laugh bursts out of Louis and, finally, a smile. “I was talking about your parents and that car.” 

Harry shimmies overs- shoulders literally shaking- to stand in front him. He wants Louis to keep smiling. It’s _Christmas_. They’re boyfriends. “I wasn’t.” 

“Merry Christmas,” Louis says leaning up for a kiss. 

When they break apart, Louis frowns and looks down at his bare toes. 

Something is wrong. Which will not do. Not this morning. “What’s wrong?” 

“This sounds stupid,” Louis says. “I can’t believe I’m even about to say it out loud.” 

“What?” Harry loops his arms around Louis’ middle. “Tell me.” 

Louis licks his lips and then meets Harry’s eyes. “I didn’t like waking up without you.” 

Harry can feel the surprise register on his face and tries to school it, but it’s too late; Louis is scowling again. “I know, I’ve woken up without you literally every day ever for my whole life. I told you it was stupid.” 

Harry rubs their noses together. “Not stupid,” he says. He’s sure his breath smells like stale coffee- it _tastes_ like stale coffee. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why did you leave?” Louis asks, voice small. 

Harry’s hands trace Louis waist, as he lets them drop in order to link his and Louis’ fingers together. With a sly smile, he begins to draw Louis back into the bedroom. Louis allows himself to be led for a few steps, but stops when he reaches the door and the full length of their arms tugs between them. 

“You could have, like, used your phone or computer in bed. You wouldn’t have woken me.” He squeezes Harry’s hand. 

Harry shakes his head. “I was working on my sermon, which usually involves talking to myself.” 

“Sounds cute,” Louis says. He’s stepping closer. “Can I watch sometime?” 

Harry feels himself flush. No one’s ever watched him prepare before, but James says that Julia gives him Saturday night sermon pointers nearly every week. “Maybe,” he allows. 

“Rather you watch… other things,” Harry suggests, diverting the conversation back to more solid ground. He cups his crotch, just in case Louis missed his meaning. 

“You rehearse… other things… a lot?” He’s staring at the outline of Harry’s cock, which is beginning to thicken in his briefs. Good. 

“Sometimes in front of a mirror,” Harry tells him, though really it was only the one time, before stepping into the shower, when the idle hand he’d had on himself while inspecting his tattoos become, well, not idle. 

“I can see why that would get you off,” Louis says. “It would get me off, watching you.” 

“It would get me off, too, watching you watch me.” They’re still an arm’s length apart, not quite in the bedroom, not quite out of it. 

Louis licks his lips.

“You’re thinking about the bathroom mirror,” Harry says. 

“No, I’m not,” Louis protests. One corner of his mouth lifts. “Well, I wasn’t, but now I am.” 

He tugs at Harry’s fingers and nods down the hall. “You want to?” 

It’s an intriguing possibility. Harry wasn’t lying when he’d said that it would get him off, and maybe he should just go with the flow- let things happen between them- but, “Sounds sexy. But less romantic than what I was imagining for our Christmas morning… booty.” 

“Booty? Our Christmas morning booty? Now, _that’s_ romantic.” Louis drops Harry’s hand and moves in close. “I think,” he murmurs, breath puffing against Harry’s lips. “We can make bathroom sex romantic.” 

Louis’ lips have parted and his eyes are fluttering shut. They can continue the argument in a moment. First, Harry needs to- 

Louis pushes up to capture Harry’s mouth for a series of long, hazy kisses, tongues mingling, hands winding between fabric and skin, twisting around locks of hair. 

When they break apart, Louis’ lips gleam, pink and plumper than they’d been a moment before. They’re both breathing hard. 

“Bathroom, then?” Louis murmurs. 

Harry wants to protest. The bed is so soft and so warm and he really does regret leaving Louis in it all alone. 

Instead, voice escaping as a rough whisper, he says, “I guess I did clean it recently.” 

Louis chuckles, tone as raspy as Harry’s, “I thought it smelled like pine.” 

“That’s from the Christmas candles I’ve put in there.” 

Louis pinches Harry’s ass. “You better go light them.” He leans up to to press a kiss against Harry’s cheek and adds, “I’ll go get the lube.” 

When Louis enters the small room, brushing by Harry to set the tube of lube on the sink, Harry’s lit two candles, the pine and the cranberry. 

Louis sniffs. “Wow. It really does smells like Christmas in here,” he says. 

“It really _is_ Christmas in here.” Harry beams at him. He wants to take off all Louis’ clothes, unwrap him like a present. He’s not sure if he’d rather tear them off quickly to get to the goods underneath, or peel free one item at a time, taking care with each, folding it and setting it aside, pressing a kiss to every new patch of skin revealed. 

They stand in the same place- statues- for several painful moments, a few inches apart but not yet touching, waiting as if they’re both uncertain who’s meant to make the first move. 

“If I recall,” Louis drawls. “You had some rehearsing to do. In front of the mirror.” 

Harry swallows and then, eyes never leaving Louis’ face, steps out of his briefs. 

Louis blinks at him and nods. “Good.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see his own reflection in the long mirror hanging on the back of the door, his hand dropping down to give his cock a tug. He doesn’t want to turn fully toward it, though, despite what he’d said earlier. He doesn’t want to look away from Louis. 

Louis shakes his head and points at the glass. “You should know what you look like. That’s why I always tell my students to use a mirror when they’re rehearsing for a show. Makes you more aware of your body, your facial expressions, all the little movements that won’t be lost on your audience.” 

“My audience,” Harry pants. His fingers are loose around the base of his cock, but it doesn’t matter. It’s throbbing anyway, Louis’ voice rubbing up and around it, as effective as a fist. 

Louis steps forward. Lips to Harry’s neck he murmurs, “I’ll show you what I mean. Put you in position. If that’s okay.” 

Harry doesn’t protest. He can’t. He wouldn’t dare. He simply allows Louis to maneuver his body, turn it so that he can see himself facing front, so much pink skin, topped by- _fuck-_ a rats’ nest of hair. His eyes are hazy and his cock stands out proudly from his body. 

Louis’ behind him now, chin resting on Harry’s shoulder. “Better,” he murmurs and Harry can feel the movement of his jaw against Harry’s own, their stubble rubbing together and catching like two sheets of sandpaper. 

Louis thick fingers map the contours of Harry’s chest, the rough pad of his thumb grazing one of Harry’s nipples and then the other. They harden into two red nubs and Harry hisses out a breath. 

Louis rolls the second between his thumb and forefinger. Against Harry’s neck he says, “This is what I mean. You look like Rudolph. Very distracting for an audience.” 

God, and that should be a joke, should make Harry giggle, but Louis’ voice is wrecked and Harry’s mind has run into an impossibly tall, hard wall of want that he can’t seem to figure his way past. 

His only outlet is to begin stroking himself, hard and fast. With intention. He feels Louis’ protest, the sudden curl of his body, the drop of his hand, before Louis says the words. “We’re not there yet.” 

“When,” Harry gasps. “When will we be there? What should I do? Tell me what to do.” 

“First,” Louis murmurs. “Open your eyes and really look at yourself.” 

Harry hadn’t even realized that his eyes had closed. He opens them but all he can see is Louis, Louis’ lips, Louis’ eyes, Louis’ hands, covering his belly. 

Gazes locked, Louis adjusts their position so that Harry’s fully flush against him. Suddenly, Harry feels the hard line of Louis’ cock slip between his cheeks and he lets his head fall back to rest on Louis’ shoulder. 

“You’re not looking,” Louis insists. 

Harry whines and cants his hips backwards. Right now, ‘looking’ is the last thing he needs. He needs heat, friction, Louis’ hand around him. 

“Look,” Louis commands again, but this time he dances his hands down to cup Harry’s balls as he says it, surprising Harry enough that his eyes blink wide. 

“Fuck, Louis,” he gasps. He needs Louis to hurry up. He’s beginning to ache with the waiting. “I don’t have time for this kind of teasing.” 

They’re the wrong words because they bring him abruptly out of the moment. His mind careens the couple of miles to the church and lands his ass hard in his desk chair, his fingers flipping open his sermon manuscript for one last desperate read-through. That’s where he _should_ be. 

“Make time, then.” The words are soft, but they carry the same weight as his earlier command. “I’m your boyfriend.” 

The reminder twists Harry’s lips upward, pulling him back into the bathroom, into Louis’ arms. He says, “I’m not Santa Claus.” 

Louis’ hand releases his balls and grips his cock. Harry sucks in a breath. “Ho.” He tugs Harry’s length once. “Ho.” Twice. “Ho.” Three times. 

Through gritted teeth, Harry says, “Stop teasing me.” 

Louis’ strokes continue, as he replies, “Then, _watch.”_

Harry’s eyes meet Louis’ in the glass, yet again. 

“Now, what’s wrong with this picture?” Louis asks, his words scratching out in time with the rhythm of his hand. 

Harry searches the image in front of him, his mind still stalled out. He has no idea what Louis wants him to say, so he settles on, “Nothing.” 

“Wrong.” Louis hips cant against him, reminding Harry of Louis’ own erection. “Try again.” 

Harry bites his lower lip. It’s already red and glistening. He must’ve been chewing at it earlier, when his eyes were closed. “You’re not naked.” 

“Wrong, again.” Louis hand is slowing. _Why._ “I don’t need to be naked to fuck your thighs.” 

Harry moans. _Do it,_ he wants to say, but he can’t seem to get the words out of his mouth. It doesn’t matter, because Louis releases him and reaches between them to free himself from his boxers- a torturous moment of separation that leaves Harry practically panting. And then he’s pressing them together again reaching over toward the counter where Harry sees his bottle of lube. 

“Handy that I’d found this under your bed before. I knew exactly where to look when I needed it, didn’t I?” Louis murmurs as he unscrews the cap. 

Harry likes slippery, wet sex as much as the next person- _it’s his lube_ \- but in that moment, he does not see the need. Fuck the pinched hair between his thighs and the burn against Louis’ sensitive skin- he’s desperate. He can see just how desperate in the mirror. His cock is _leaking,_ a pearl of precome glistening on its tip. 

After an excruciating twenty-three seconds- of which Harry counted every one- Louis slides himself between Harry’s thighs, slipping by Harry’s hole, and then brushing up against his balls. 

This time Harry’s ready, eyes open and already on Louis’ face, when Louis lifts his own gaze to meet Harry’s. “That’s better.” 

Harry hums. 

When Louis’ hand returns to Harry’s cock, it’s wet with lube, sliding easier, _quicker_ , than before. His hand is faster on Harry, even, than his thrusts, which are too careful and too measured for Harry’s liking. 

It’s not something Harry can dwell on though because finally, _finally_ , his orgasm begins to swell inside him, tingling up and down his length and then bursting as Louis’ cock grazes up against his sack again and again and again. 

His eyes are open, when the first spurt of come pulses out of him, the force of the moment, drawing a cry from him, before he closes them again, allowing the sensation to overtake everything. 

He’s sagged against Louis, wrapped in his heat, he realizes a moment later, as the shock settles off, and Louis- _Louis_ is rocking more quickly now, panting in his ear. 

This, Harry wants to see. 

Sweat sticks Louis’ fringe to his forehead and drips at his temple. His mouth is open against Harry’s throat and his fingers are digging into Harry’s hips. 

He groans, and, suddenly, Harry’s thighs are more slippery even than they’d been before. Harry lets the quiet settle for a moment, lets Louis’ breath slow, lets the deliciously naughty drip of come slip and slide down his legs. 

Then, he says, “What do you think? Has my rehearsing paid off?” 

Louis bites him, gently, below his ear. Then, he rasps, “We should probably practice more. Together.” 

~

Harry steps out of the bathroom and into the freezing air of the hall. 

“Love,” Louis calls from the kitchen. _Love_. Harry grins. “I’m answering a text message for you.” 

Harry’s smile falls and he rushes forward. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Louis, but… his work can be very delicate sometimes. “What? Who?” 

“Oh, just Sally- that’s the secretary, right? She said she’s leaving her place to come pick you up. I told her you already have a ride to church.” 

Harry looks Louis up and down. He’s wearing khakis and a cream colored sweater, bunching around his ankles and wrists. “I do?” 

Louis returns Harry’s weighted gaze and suddenly Harry is aware that he is very, very naked. “Yeah, you do.” 

“Did you tell her that my boyfriend is bringing me?” Harry asks, straightening his shoulders and trying not to shiver. 

“Oh, is he? I thought your parents….” 

Harry crosses the few feet between them and kisses Louis, hard on the mouth. Then moves his lips up across his stubble-rough jaw and cheek. When he reaches Louis’ temple, he murmurs, “You don’t have to come. I really don’t expect you to.” 

He feels Louis’ smile against his own cheek. “Don’t get used to it. It _is_ Christmas.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says, deciding that he has time for just a few more kisses before getting dressed. 

~

Harry picks up his manuscript and outline from the pulpit. The building cleared out quickly this morning, so the sanctuary is quiet as he flips through it, checking to see what he’d forgotten. 

Not much.

He smiles. Another accomplishment for whom he has Louis to thank, at least in part. 

A creak from the back of the room startles him and he looks up to see Louis standing at the end of the last pew, bathed in a stream of sunlight, streaking in from one of the tall windows on the side of the sanctuary. 

“Hey,” Louis says, walking down the aisle. 

“Hey,” Harry replies meandering toward him. They meet at the communion table and Harry sets his notes on top of it and pulls Louis into his arms. 

“Hey,” he says again.

“Good job.” He’s smiling. “Maybe this is a weird thing to say, but I’m proud of you. Like, I’m proud to be your boyfriend.” 

For some reason, Harry’s eyes well up with tears. “Me, too,” he says. Because it might be weird, but he feels the same way when he thinks about the amazing Christmas pageant, about Louis’ easy rapport with the kids, about how handsome Louis looks in Harry’s sweater, the sleeves falling down over his hands as he clutches at the front of Harry’s shirt. 

“Merry Christmas,” Louis murmurs, leaning in for a peck and then another. 

“Merry Christmas,” Harry tells him, between a series of kisses that grows increasingly heated. 

Louis turns their bodies so that Harry can feel the hard edge of the communion table dig into his lower back and then slides a thigh between Harry’s legs. 

The door to the sanctuary creaks open again and they break apart. Harry’s heart thuds in his chest. He looks to see who’s caught them. 

It’s Louis’ mom. “I don’t mean to interrupt.” She laughs. “Nevermind. Yes, I do. I’m hoping you two can hurry it up. I’m feeding _two_ families for Christmas dinner this year and I need some help in the kitchen. Harry, didn’t you say you used to be a baker?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! It's finished for real now. So much love to each and every one of you! 
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/153902298575/yet-in-thy-dark-streets-shineth-by-juliusschmidt)  
>  now with timestamps and other goodies in [its tumblr tag](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/tagged/yet%20goodies)  
> <3


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